


All the Friends You Need

by SQ (proteinscollide)



Series: TAI high school AU [1]
Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Panic At The Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-26
Updated: 2010-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-13 09:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/135736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proteinscollide/pseuds/SQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>You'll know when to move up / You'll know when to take all the right chances / Never looking back.</em></p><p>Otherwise known as the TAI high school AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Friends You Need

**Author's Note:**

  * For [littlerhymes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/gifts).



> Ro: happy belated Christmas, birthday, Christmas and birthday again! Thanks for being so patient, for listening to me ramble and whine about how it wasn't going well, and for letting me use you as a canon resource for your own gift. :) And most of all, thanks for being an awesome friend!
> 
> And many thanks to Lesa Soja for being a lovely beta and American-ising (or should that be American-izing?) the fic. All remaining mistakes are most definitely mine.

**WILLIAM**

“I declare Australians to be so hot right now,” William announced to the table at lunch on the first day of Spring term, sliding into his seat all angles, his elbow catching Gabe in the shoulder.

Ashlee and Vicky T, sharing a magazine and an apple across the table from him, didn’t even look up at this. Suarez had spotted Ryland in the lunch line and was having a complicated eyebrow-only conversation with him across the cafeteria. William looked sadly around the table at his supposed friends, none of whom were paying any attention to him, and sighed loudly.

“Fine, I’ll bite," Gabe said finally, rubbing his shoulder still. "Why, William, are Australians so hot right now?”

William smiled sunnily and turned to face him, stealing one of the hotdogs from Gabe’s tray in the process. “Because,” he said around a mouthful of bread, “Australian swimmers. Have you seen how hot they are? Muscles and tans and shiny white teeth, oh my. I have seen my future wife and as soon as I work out how to infiltrate the Australian swimming team, I am going to claim her as my own.”

“You have got to stop watching random sports on cable over break,” Tom said with a groan.

William whirled around and said, "Hah! I knew you were listening in."

“There’s a new kid, an Australian, in one of my classes,” Butcher said. He bit into a red velvet cupcake and made an ecstatic face, while William waited for him to elaborate. When Butcher didn't go on, William said, "So what? Is he a swimmer? Is he hot?"

Butcher said around a creamy mouthful, "I don't know, and hmm, I guess he's alright looking. But I meant more like, you know, he could help you get closer to the swimming team. They’d trust one of their own, right?”

Tom rolled his eyes and left the table. "I'm going to go sit with some actually sane people," he said loudly as he left.

William just smiled and slid down into the space Tom had vacated. “Tell me more,” he said with a gleam in his eye.

"Guy called Michael Chislett, I have band with him. Man, can he play guitar, he's awesome. You should hear him and Mike dueling, it’s mad…” Butcher broke off as William narrowed his eyes at him. “…or, um, yeah. Anyway, he's cool.”

William chose to ignore the fact that Butcher had mentioned he-who-should-not-be-named and asked, “So, what’s this Chislett look like?”

“Just, you know, like. Messy hair, has an Aussie accent. Hang on – he might have lunch this period too - ” Butcher swiveled in his seat, looking around the cafeteria. William took the chance to steal a cupcake off Butcher's tray.

Butcher said, still turned away, “Yeah, right over there, at seven o'clock. And I totally saw you taking that cupcake. You owe me."

William turned away from the Butcher and stuffed the delicious baked good in his mouth quickly to get rid of the evidence. Over there, where? Oh, there, in the corner of the cafeteria, a sandy-haired boy on his own, chair tilted back so far he was leaning against the wall. He was reading the latest Rolling Stone and making faces. No one around him, not even the freshmen at the table by his side, seemed to notice he was there.

Gabe hooked his chin over William’s shoulder and said, “Who are you looking for, a new rival for my affections?”

“Kind of,” Butcher said, laughing, “He’s looking for a hot Australian.”

William barely heard them mocking him, lost in thought. The answer was simple - he would befriend this new kid, Chislett, and be one step closer to his beloved Stephanie Rice. William nodded at his brilliant plan, and stood up just as the bell rang. Everyone at the table groaned, unfolding themselves from the narrow seats, gathering up their books for class. William followed Chislett out of the cafeteria, wondering just how he could corner him. Chislett wandered the halls hesitantly, as if still puzzled by the corridors and classes, by the people who rushed past either side of him. He was pretty easy to follow, even when Jon and Greta stopped William to remind him about the first drama production meeting after school, and when William stopped to blow a kiss to Christine across the hall as he passed her American History class.

Chislett didn't get stopped, not even once.

Luckily for William, it turned out Chislett was heading to the same class, to gym (he took the long way, William noted). When William saw him on the court, in his non-regulation shirt and shorts, he realized why the Chislett looked vaguely familiar. He was _that_ new kid, the one who didn't know what dodgeball was, but talked about weird games at his last school – stuff like cricket, rugby and Aussie Rules. William really wasn't sure about that last one, it sounded more like a cheer than a sport.

William eased between clumps of people, trying to get to Chislett's side to say hi or something, but then Tom picked him for his side, and De’mar picked Chislett for the other side, and that was that for the class. But afterwards, William hurried out of the locker room after the speediest shower ever to keep a stealthy lookout for Chislett.

"You know, you get a better view if you lurk _inside_ the changerooms," Tom teased as he passed.

"Fuck off," William said without heat. "Hey, did you see Chislett in there?" At Tom's blank look, William said, "You know, the new kid, the Australian one."

Tom scrunched up his face. "Maybe? Wasn't keeping tabs on anyone, Billiam."

William sighed. So maybe he wasn't as good at this surveillance thing, and it was probably time to give up for the day. He went to his locker to put away his gym gear and grab his books for his next class. He was digging through the mess at the bottom for his math book when he heard distinctly Australian tones nearby. He peered around his locker door, and there was Chislett, leaning casually against _Mike Carden's_ locker. William looked away hurriedly, not wanting to catch Carden's eye. But he listened in from behind the safety of the door.

"Dude, Glasvegas? Really?"

Chislett laughed, and said, "I'll lend you the CD, don't knock it until you've tried it."

The bell rang. Around them, classroom doors opened, and people spilled out into the corridor. As Carden cackled loudly at something Chislett said, his head thrown back, he missed the surprised and nervous glance a passing girl gave him as she edged over to the other side of the hall. Neither guy seemed to notice, still chatting away and laughing. Carden had the Rolling Stone in his hand, and as he pointed to something on the page, Chislett crowded in, reading over Carden's shoulder. He murmured something and Carden cracked up again, turning sideways to punch Chislett in the arm lightly. There was something terribly familiar in the whole scene, and William's stomach twisted as the memory hit him. He slammed his locker door shut and walked away quickly in the opposite direction.

**

The auditorium was abuzz with excitement by the time William walked in after school, everyone whipped into a frenzy by the gossip that Pete had been expelled barely a semester shy of graduation.

"I heard he sent Ashlee a dirty text, but Mr. Simpson read it instead."

"I thought it was a nude photo."

"Whatever it was, he probably shouldn't have sent it to the vice principal's daughter."

"I hope he's not actually gone, who's going to run the production?"

William slid into the seat next to Patrick, rolling his eyes at the gossiping sophomores in front of them.

"I can't believe that old rumor is still going around," William said.

Patrick blinked myopically at William as he glanced up from his laptop, headphones askew.

"What rumor?" Patrick asked, turning back to the screen in front of him without waiting for an answer. He wasn’t interested in the latest gossip about anyone at school, not ever. William was sure this was partly why he was Pete’s best friend.

William stretched up and caught sight of Ashlee coming into the room. He waved, hoping she'd come over and chat to him – Ashlee _loved_ to dish about Pete’s latest attempts to woo her – but then Pete himself arrived in a flurry of sound and everyone turned their attention to the front.

Pete pulled himself on stage and sat on the edge, little legs dangling. "Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated," he said, as the auditorium burst out in hoots and cheers.

Pete grinned and waited for the noise to subside. Then he said, more seriously, "But I did have a fight on my hands about putting on a spring musical this year, after the, um, unmitigated success that was the fall play."

The buzz started up in the auditorium again. Pete broke through the noise and said, “Don't worry guys, there was just some friendly discussion with the school board about what musical we could put on, that’s all. They wanted something a little less naked, a little more family-friendly this time. Like the Sound of Music - ”

“Nazis!” Someone in the audience yelled out and Pete said, “That’s what I said! So I countered with Rocky Horror.”

There was a chorus of wolf whistles, and a few kids got up and started doing the Time Warp. Pete threw his head back and laughed. “I know, I wish. Then the school tried to tell me how _delightful_ On the Town is, and I tried one last time to lobby for Spring Awakening. No dice.”

There was a wave of groans and boos. “So what are we doing?”

“We’ve come to a compromise, as we do every year," Pete said. "We’re going to put on Guys and Dolls."

“A real nice old fashioned musical with an uplifting message," Vicky-T grumbled, making a face.

“C’mon, it’ll be great! There’s gambling, dancing, nightclubs, and people getting liquored up in Cuba. What’s not to like?”

“Uh, it’s also full of religion,” Ryland said, adding dryly, “And religion wins. They start off being gamblers and end up as missionaries."

“Have I ever let you guys down?” Pete asked. “Guys, I’m gonna run you guys ragged, you’re gonna eat, sleep, and dream of nothing but this production, but I swear to you, I will totally make this worth your while.”

He clapped his hands and said, “Right, so we’ve got a lot of work to do, and the budget’s a bit tight this year, so I want to get started right away, get you guys brainstorming and workshopping.” He sprang to his feet, and started walking along the edge of the stage, pointing at various kids and breaking the group up into sections.

“If you want to help out with AV and sound, Victoria’s the woman to see. I want you guys to let me know by the end of rehearsal today what tech you might need. Travis, you’re in charge of sets and backdrops. Gather up any kids who want to help you paint and build. Patrick and Greta have been working on an arrangement of the score already, but they need musicians. Patrick's gonna come down to the front to take names, so sign up with him if you’re interested.”

“When are the auditions?” Jon asked, his bare feet up on the seat in front of him.

“Sorry to disappoint some of you, but there won’t be auditions this year,” Pete said to a collective howl of disbelief. “No, wait, hear me out. If you want a part, come and talk to me. I’m going to hold a separate workshop, get you guys to read a range of parts, then assign them as I see fit. But the leads have been cast.”

There were a few more dissenting calls. Pete put his hands up in front of him and said, "Whoa, who's the director here? This is my last year and my last production, and I definitely plan on going out with a bang not a whimper. Trust me.”

"Who are the leads?" Ryan asked, pen poised over his notepad.

Ashlee giggled and leaned over the back of William's seat to whisper, "He's not even assigned to the drama beat." She let her eyes slide from Ryan to Jon next to him, and William did an exaggerated double take.

"Nooooooo," William whispered back, "And Jonny spent most of break telling me about how awesome Ryan is. I give them a month before either of them catches on."

"Five weeks and you've got yourself a bet," Ashlee said, "Loser buys coffee for the winner for a week."

On stage, Pete was counting off the lead character parts on the fingers of one hand. "So we’ve got Nathan the gambler who hasn’t a place to gamble, Sky Masterson who’ll bet on anything, Adelaide the showgirl who’s Nathan’s eternal fiancee, and Sarah the missionary to these down-and-out characters. I've already talked to Gabe, William, Greta and Ashlee about taking on these parts.”

William grinned in the dark, and held out his hand to Greta, who was sitting two seats away. She gripped it tight and said, “We are going to rock this,” almost as if reassuring herself. Pete hadn't talked to them so much as double-dared them into taking up the challenge.

"There's going to be so many lines to learn," William sighed, but inside he was really, really excited about his part. Pete was nuts, but in the very best way.

Behind them, Ryland grinned and said, “Hey William, if you’re gonna be playing Sky, I think you’re holding the wrong girl’s hand.”

Greta laughed knowingly, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. “Oh, so I better go and kiss up to someone else then, yeah?”

She winked at William before she turned and blew a kiss toward the stage, where Gabe and Ashlee were still talking to Pete. Gabe, looking over Pete’s shoulder, reached out and pretended to catch it to everyone's catcalls and laughter.

Patrick came back to his seat looking disgruntled. "Everybody wants to be on stage, with this being Pete’s last production and all. No one's signing up for the orchestra." Turning to Greta, he said grumpily, “And you should’ve told me Pete was going to cast you as one of the leads. You can’t be in the orchestra and on stage at the same time.”

“We’ll cope,” she said. “William, you know anyone who could play for us?”

“What instruments?”

“Everything, anything,” Patrick said gloomily. “We’ll probably need a few people just to replace Miss I-Can-Do-Everything here."

William sat up straight suddenly, an idea taking shape in his mind. “Wait…how about a guitar player?”

Patrick said, “Yeah, we could always do with more of those. Got anyone in mind?”

William smiled. “Yeah, I think I know just the person to talk to.”

Operation Stalk-An-Aussie was back on.

**

“For the last time, I can't get you a date with Stephanie Rice,” Michael said bemusedly. “Australia’s a big country, there’s, like, 21 million people there. I don’t even think we’re from the same state!”

The volleyball flew past them both, ignored. William had spent all his energy making sure Tom picked him AND Michael to be on the same team, he didn't have any left to actually play.

William said sadly, “I know the truth. You want her for yourself, that’s why you won’t help me, right?”

“I can’t help you because you’re _bonkers_ ,” Michael said, grinning despite himself. The ball came straight at them again, and Michael made a half-hearted attempt to bat the ball back over the net when it was clear that William was not going to lift a hand.

“But I had such great plans for our friendship too,” William said. “What do your friends back home call you? Mikey?” William frowned, and said, almost to himself, “No, that’s – that won’t do. How about Chizzy? I can call you Chizzy now that we’re such great friends - ”

“This is the first time you’ve talked to me in the semester and a half I’ve been at this school,” Michael said.

“Details, Chizzy,” William said. “We’ll be good friends from now on, you’ll see. And friends help each other - ”

“Seriously, William, I can’t get you to Stephanie Rice!” Michael said exasperatedly.

“Fine, be that way,” William said. Then he added, "But you play guitar, right?”

“Yeah, but what’s it to you? You’re after someone in band as well?”

“My motives are purer than that, my friend,” William said. “Do you like suave gangsters and classy dames? Jazzy numbers? The ringing applause of the adoring masses?” He looked expectantly at Michael.

“Why does nobody here make any sense?” Michael muttered, but before William could attempt an answer, Michael sighed and said, “If I say yes to this, will you stop harassing me?”

“Probably not,” William said. “But I would have the undying love of Patrick and Greta if one of the best guitarists in school would join the musical orchestra. So say yes, please.”

“Oh that’s what you’re asking me to do,” Michael said. “Why couldn’t you just say so?”

The coach blew his whistle, the match over.

“Anyway,” Michael said, in step with William as they walked to the locker room, “How do you know I’m any good?”

“Butcher vouched for you, and he knows his music. I trust him."

"So when's rehearsal?" Michael asked.

William grinned; he plan was coming to fruition, finally! "There's a rehearsal after school today.”

"This afternoon," Michael said slowly. "I - Mike and I were going to go over our maths homework then jam a bit."

William stopped short just before the locker room door. "Mike as in Mike Carden?" he said, as lightly as he could.

"Yeah, you know him?" Michael said. "We have a couple of classes together, he's a really cool guy."

"Hmm," William said, and just left it there, hanging. "You really should come to rehearsal today though, I think Patrick's really antsy about not having enough musicians." Another pause, then William added, eyes wide, "I'm sure Mike's so cool he wouldn't mind if you couldn't make it today."

"Yeah, you're probably right," Michael said. "Alright, so after school?"

"Or you could even come and meet the gang at lunch," William said. He just smiled when Michael agreed, but inside he was doing fist pumps. He'd bagged his hot Australian _and_ thwarted Mike Carden in the process. He was a freaking _ninja_.

 **SISKY**

His mom was getting ready to go out on another date, leaving Jason in charge.

“I’m fifteen!” Sisky protested.

She just shook her head and said, “Adam, I don’t have time for this. Listen to Jason and stay out of trouble, okay?”

To Jason she said, “I’ll be back late, don’t stay up. There’s a casserole in the fridge. Do your homework.”

She gave them both a distracted kiss and disappeared out the door in a flurry of scarves and musky perfume.

Around nine, as Jason was putting away the dishes, Sisky heard him talking on the phone. “I can’t, I’m babysitting Adam.”

Sisky, listening in from the door, could hear the shouts and laughter from the other end of the phone.

Jason continued, “What? Patty’s really been asking about me? Man…” he rubbed his face. “Well, yeah, I guess. Okay. See you in fifteen.”

As Jason hung up, Sisky dashed back to his room and bounced onto his bed. He pretended to be engrossed in his algebra homework when Jason popped his head around the door.

“Hey Adam, I’ll give you five bucks if you don’t tell mom I went out.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out. So, how about it?”

“Is it the party at William’s?” He’d heard two juniors talking about it at their lockers that afternoon. Jason stayed silent.

“You know mom will kill you if she hears that you left me here on my own,” Sisky said.

“You don’t even want me to be around! I’m totally doing you a favor.”

“How about $20 then?”

Jason shook his head and said, “No way. Don’t be an ass, Adam.”

“Okay, $15, and I get to come with.”

“What? Are you kidding me? Mom would go nuts if she knew.”

“That’s the whole point! You take me along, I don’t tell mom, everyone’s happy.”

Jason closed his eyes, then said, “Fine. 10 bucks, and you get to come with. But I’m leaving in five.”

As soon as Jason came through the door Patty wound herself around him and led him away into the crowd, neither of them looking back. Sisky stood helplessly in the hallway, watching his brother disappear, then let himself be carried by the surge of people into a quiet corner of the living room. He didn’t know anyone here apart from his brother and William, but he _knew of_ almost everyone here – and there were no other freshmen.

Sisky jumped as someone pushed up against him and said in a friendly voice, “Got a drink?” A red cup materialized in front of him.

Sisky took it and had a quick sip. It tasted too sweet, like cordial, but it had a bitter aftertaste.

The guy smiled and said, “Can’t bear to see someone at a party without a drink. Go on, drink it all. It’s got fruit in it, it’s good for you.”

Sisky raised the cup to his lips.

“Hey thanks, um - ”

“It’s Gabe,” the guy said helpfully. “Gabe Saporta.”

Sisky remembered, dimly, Jason joking about never ever taking a drink from Gabe, but this guy was so friendly and chill. As were all his really tall friends, who’d suddenly surrounded Sisky. Sisky shrugged, and chugged down the punch anyway, as the guys around him hollered.

“Now you’re ready to have some fun,” Gabe said approvingly. “You’re Jason Siska’s little bro, right?”

“I’m not little,” Sisky said automatically.

Gabe nodded sagely and said, “I can see that, young Siska. Here, have another delicious drink.” Sisky took the cup obediently.

Behind them, one of Gabe’s friends snorted and muttered,” A fucking _lamb_.”

Gabe ignored them, put an arm around Sisky’s shoulder, and started steering him toward the hall. “Come and meet a few of my friends, young Siska.”

The new hour passed in an increasing blur. There were more drinks, and more people, and more people who passed him more drinks.

Sisky vaguely remembered watching Pete Wentz take off his shirt and lie down on the kitchen bench top, challenging Alex to assemble a sandwich like a Jenga tower on his stomach, Ryland cheering him on. The ground around them was littered with strips of lettuce and globs of mayo, the casualties of a food battle.

Sisky definitely remembered dancing pressed with Vicky T, her arms around him as he leaned into her embrace, while Gabe ground up against them both enthusiastically. Afterwards, Vicky T patted his curls and said, “Aww, you're so cute. Can we keep him, Gabe?”

And when he felt like he was going to hurl, Gabe ushered him outside and led him to a deck chair. “A little fresh air will do you good,” he said. Sisky nodded, his head spinning. He lay back and closed his eyes for a second, hearing Gabe say faintly, “Sayonara, little dude!”

When Sisky opened his eyes, Ryan Ross was sitting cross-legged on the deck next to him, smoking up. He stared as Sisky with unblinking eyes, then, when Sisky blinked, he blew some smoke in his face. Sisky coughed. Ryan waited for Sisky to focus on him again, then repeated the whole sequence every time Sisky blinked first (and he blinked first every time). It was the weirdest, creepiest, smokiest staring contest Sisky had ever been in, but he felt too tired to move after a while. He just lay there, eyes wide open, listening to Tom and Jon arguing about cameras and lenses.

It was past one when he finally stumbled back into the house, red-eyed and dazed, wondering where Jason could be found. He moved from room to room downstairs, but he couldn't see his brother anywhere. When he bumped into William, who was swaying on his feet with an arm around Christine’s waist as an anchor, he leaned up and yelled in his year, “Bill, have you seen Jason?”

William just laughed and said, “Sisky! You made it. Let me show you around.” He transferred his weight onto Sisky, the crook of his elbow hooked around Sisky’s neck. Christine looked apologetic and yet relieved.

“No, it’s okay,” Sisky protested as they lurched down the corridor together, Sisky struggling to hold up William’s spider-like frame. “I’ve already met - ”

“But you haven’t met the Butcher,” William slurred. He stopped in front of a skinny guy in nothing but a pair of pink terry-cloth shorts, curled up in a corner of the couch, talking to Alex.

“Move up,” William commanded, and Alex shuffled, switching the conversation to Ashlee on his other side. William flopped into the space in between, dragging Sisky down with him.

"Rhythm section boys," he said, draping an arm around their necks, one on each side of him. "Adam, meet Andy. Sisky, Butcher. Be nice to the little one."

He patted Sisky on the head and wandered off muttering about more alcohol.

“So how’s it going?” Butcher asked.

Sisky was feeling pretty stoned and drunk by this point. “I ate a sandwich off someone's stomach. I think I'm in love with Vicky T. And Gabe, Gabe gave me lots of drinks. Jon and Tom were talking about F-stops for like, an hour, but I couldn't work out what they were. That makes me sad. I feel like I’m missing a really important piece of knowledge in my life. You're really warm. Can I have a hug?”

It was a small couch and Butcher was hot and nice and right up in his side. Sisky cuddled up against Butcher, head against his shoulder, and Butcher put an around him, warm and steadying.

"Hey, you're okay," Butcher’s voice was warm and steady too, right in his ear. “I can help you out with a hug, _and_ the mystery of the F-stop. So if you took a camera and...”

Sisky fell asleep to the lullaby of Butcher’s patient explanation about photography and cameras.

He woke in a cloudy fog to Jason's voice. “Sorry man, little brothers, they're such pains.”

Butcher laughed softly and said, “No, it’s okay, man, my bad. I bored him to sleep.”

Sisky wanted to protest - it wasn’t like that at all - but he couldn’t seem to make any part of him move, not his arms or his legs or his tongue.

Jason leaned down and shook him roughly. “C’mon bro, we gotta get home before mom.”

It seemed to take forever to untangle himself from Butcher, and Sisky tripped over his feet and Butcher's feet in the process of getting up and away.

"Sorry," he mumbled, feeling all muddled up, his head still heavy. "Sorry for, um, everything."

Butcher reached out and held his hand for a second. "Nothing to be sorry for," he said. "I'll see you around, Sisky."

**

Sisky had all of Saturday and Sunday to feel like shit. Early Saturday morning his mom had opened up his blinds to the unrelenting sun. Sisky struggled to act like he hadn't been drunk and out till 2am. He'd grouched his way through pancake breakfast, his favorite, and in the end Jason had kicked him viciously under the table while telling his mom they'd kinda maybe had a x-box marathon and stayed up late.

"Well, you boys only have yourselves to blame," she said, not the slightest bit sorry.

But after the hangover passed, when his consciousness came back, Sisky felt even worse. He’d _fallen asleep_ on a junior like a little kid, and worse, Butcher had seemed really cool, and kinda hot. Sisky resolved to never again mention, or even think about, this weekend ever again.

At lunch on Monday, Sisky was scarfing down his lunch while listening half-heartedly to Nate complaining about the pop quiz in algebra.

"It's unfair when they spring them on you like that," Nate whined. "They should give us a fighting chance. It's the third week of term! We haven't learned enough to be quizzed on! Sisky, did you look over any of it over the weekend?"

"What?" Sisky said, surprised. "Uh, I - "

William passed by at that moment. “Hey Adam, good to see you’ve recovered,” he said with a wicked grin, ruffling Sisky’s hair as he went.

Brendon, wide-eyed, leaned in and said, “William's friends with your brother, right? Recovered from what? Were you sick on the weekend?”

Before Sisky could answer, Pete darted over and said, “Sisky! You're gonna join our little production, right? Come by during rehearsal, we’ll set you up with something to do. I’m not taking no for an answer. Gotta go, more people to accost.” He jogged away, tattoos visible on his forearm where he’d rolled up his sleeves.

“Did Pete Wentz, like, just personally invite you to join the Spring musical?” Spencer asked, eyes narrowing.

Sisky opened his mouth to answer, but he closed it again when he felt an arm snake around his shoulders and across his neck so he ended up pressed against someone’s tall, lean body.

“Sisky Biz,” Gabe said, “Just the man I wanted to see. You’re gonna hang with us at rehearsal, right?” He took in the rapt gazes staring up at him from the whole table, and said magnanimously, “You should bring your friends too.” He straightened up and sauntered away. Behind him, Vicky T was filming the cafeteria on her tiny camcorder, but she blew a kiss at Sisky from behind the lens in Gabe’s wake.

“Wait, when did _you_ become one of the cool kids?” Nate demanded as soon as they were out of earshot. “Seriously, is it bizarro day? ‘Cos you look just like Adam T. Siska except all the hot upperclassmen are on a first name, touchy-feely basis with you.”

“I made Jason take me along to William’s party on Friday,” Sisky admitted. “It was pretty awesome.” _Except for the part where I fell asleep on a hot guy and probably drooled on his shoulder_ , he thought, blushing again at the thought.

“No way,” Brendon said, voice tinged with envy. “You're blushing. Oh my god, what did you get up to? Did you get drunk?”

"Um, yeah," Sisky said. "So much that it hurt like hell on Saturday morning."

Even Spencer looked impressed as they regarded Sisky in this new light.

"Man, we totally have to go to the rehearsal this afternoon," Brendon said as the bell rang for next period, "Let's meet at the auditorium."

But Sisky lingered at his locker after last period, taking his time putting his books away, trying to talk himself out of showing up. In the light of day, back at school, he knew he didn't belong with the arts and drama crowd. They were weird, and creative, and so weird and creative that they were cool.

Sisky wasn't cool, or arty, or even weird. Yeah, Jason had grown up with William and Jon and Tom but once they'd hit high school they only partied together outside of school hours since they didn't really run in the same circles. Last summer, before the start of high school, Sisky had dreamed of being on the track team and playing baseball for the school, just like Jason. What could he do to help with the musical production? And his mom was going to hate the idea of an after school activity, considering how bad his grades were already. Yeah, it'd be stupid for him to go to the rehearsal.

But he found himself walking past the auditorium doors anyway. Brendon and Spencer were already waiting for him by the door.

" _C'mon_ ," Brendon said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "We've been here ages. We need you man, you're our ticket into this brave new world."

Spencer rolled his eyes, but held the door open for Brendon and Sisky as they walked into the auditorium. "There are signs all over the school asking people to sign up for drama crew," he said. "It's not, like, an exclusive invite-only club."

"I don't want to be crew," Brendon said. "My ambitions are loftier than that. Also, these hands are too delicate to be hammering away at sets. Sisky, do you think they need any more people for the orchestra? I heard that Patrick Stump's been asking around for musicians. Do you know Patrick's in charge of all the music for the musical? And he's only a sophomore! That is so awesome."

Brendon burbled on as they walked down the aisle to the hive of activity on and around the stage. Sisky craned his head and looked around quickly, but he couldn't see Butcher. He didn't know if the fluttery feeling in his stomach was relief, or disappointment.

"...so anyway, I totally need to impress him with my skills. You can introduce me to Patrick, right, Sisky?"

"It sounds more like you want to date Patrick than join the orchestra," Spencer said sharply. He stopped in his tracks and crossed his arms, looking disgruntled.

Brendon didn't notice as he said, "Oh, there he is. Sisky-wan, you're my only hope!"

Sisky let himself be towed along by Brendon, who'd clamped his hand surprisingly tight around Sisky's wrist. Patrick was yelling at Pete, who was leaning against the stage.

"Pete, you've left me with two drummers, a bass, a guitarist, and two oboes. Who's gonna play the music? You can't have a musical with no music!"

"You can, it's called a play," Pete said, then added disarmingly, "Okay, kidding, just kidding. We have you, Patrick. You can play everything! I'm sure you have it under - "

"I can't play everything AT THE SAME TIME," Patrick said, the tips of his ears turning red. "This is ridiculous! You're - "

"Sisky!" Pete called out above Patrick's ranting. "Good to see you. Uh, you wouldn't happen to have a spare musician stashed somewhere, would you?"

Sisky could feel Brendon thrumming with excitement beside him. He thought about saying no, just to see if Brendon would actually explode, but in the end he pushed Brendon in front of him and said, "Actually, I do. Brendon's a great musician."

Patrick looked Brendon over with a critical eye. "What can you play?"

Brendon counted off on his fingers as he rattled off the list of instruments. "Piano, guitar, bass, drums, trumpet..."

Patrick interrupted him, asking, "Clarinet? Saxophone?"

Brendon frowned and said, "Well, no...but I can learn!"

“You’ll do," Patrick said, shrugging. “We’re heading over to the music room now to start working on the arrangements." Brendon was hot on his heels as they walked away, already asking questions excitedly about what Patrick had in mind for the score.

Pete laughed and said, "You're a lifesaver, Sisky. Looks like Patrick's got himself an acolyte."

Spencer made a choked noise and Pete swiveled round to look at him. "And you, with the murderous look in his eyes?"

Spencer had been staring after Brendon and Patrick, but at Pete's question he said, "I’m just looking out for Brendon. Don’t put me in the musical ‘cos I can't actually act or sing."

"Neither can I," Pete said cheerily. "But I'm really good at bossing people around, so they let me be director. Brendon's taken care of, so what can we do with you?” He paused and tapped a finger against his chin thoughtfully. “Do you have any experience with admin work?"

"I file for my mom at her office sometimes," Spencer said dubiously.

"Good enough," Pete said. "You can be my assistant." He handed Spencer the clipboard he'd been clutching. Catching something out of the corner of his eye, he turned to face the stage then bellowed, "No, not there! That's not- "

Pete started jogging away, his eyes fixed on the guys measuring up the stage. Spencer looked, bewildered, first at Pete and then at Sisky.

"Are you coming?" Pete yelled over his shoulder. Spencer shrugged and then skittered after Pete who was already clambering up the front of the stage.

"Hey," Nate said, coming up behind Sisky. "What's Spence doing? Where's Brendon?"

"They’ve been recruited for their skills," Sisky said.

"Well, I got none, so maybe we should just go," Nate said. Sisky agreed, but before they could move, Gabe was easing himself between them, dropping an arm around each of them.

"Sisky-biz!" Gabe said, "Not gonna run out on us, are you? You haven't even introduced me to your adorable friend."

"Gabe, this is Nate," Sisky said. "Nate, Gabe."

"Charmed," Gabe said. "I was just looking for someone to run lines with me, and you look like you’ll do just fine." Before Sisky or Nate could protest, Gabe was walking away with Nate under his arm, talking a mile a minute.

"What a line,” William sighed. Sisky jumped – he hadn’t seen William come up beside him. “We haven't even finalized the script yet."

Sisky looked askance at William by his side. "The script’s not finished? So what - "

"Don't worry, he's in good hands," William said. "Gabe's probably going to just show him the way of the Cobra."

"That is not reassuring at all," Sisky said, but William just laughed.

"So what's your role in this musical madness, Sisky?" he asked. "You look a little lost."

"I am lost," Sisky said. "I don't know what I can do. I just got roped into this."

William looked thoughtful and said, "Well, I know Travie could use some help. They're building and painting some simple sets. Head on down to the art rooms, he'll give you something to do."

Sisky went out into the hall. He could leave now, and no one would notice. He'd done his good deed - Brendon had an in to the orchestra and Patrick, Spencer could keep an eye on Brendon as Pete's shadow, Nate was - well, Nate could look after himself, surely. Sisky slung his backpack over his right shoulder and looked down the corridor to the left - toward the main doors of the school - and then to the right, where the art rooms were. A door opened, and Butcher walked out, a tin of paint in his hands. Sisky panicked and dove to the nearest water fountain and leaned down to take an incredibly long drink.

Just as he thought he was about to drown from the amount of water he’d guzzled, as he thought the coast might be clear, an amused voice said, much too close, "Hey, I've been looking for you."

Sisky sputtered, water spraying all over the front of his shirt. He raised his head from the drinking fountain slowly, wiping his mouth. The Butcher was leaning against the wall beside him, arms crossed, grinning. Sisky's heartbeat seemed to stop for a moment.

"You were?" he said, trying not to sound as pleased as he felt. His heart started again, now racing, faster and louder. Butcher was wearing tight jeans and a thin red and blue striped wife beater, and Sisky couldn't help but look from Butcher's face to his chest, down and down further.

"Did I spill some paint on myself?" Butcher said.

Sisky started, dragging his eyes up to meet Butcher's gaze. He blushed, but managed to stammer, "You - you have a spot here." He pointed, fingers hovering over the vermilion patch blooming just over where Butcher's heart would be.

"Aw, shit," Butcher sighed. "Hey, you might as well come with me, Bill said you were heading to the art rooms to help us paint."

The art room was warm, with the windows all shut and the radiator going. Sisky stood in the middle of a jumble of desks, arms crossed, and turned around slowly to take in all the paintings on the wall.

"That's all our major works from last term," Butcher said, his voice muffled.

Sisky turned toward him then stopped short when he saw Butcher was pulling off his top, exposing his chest, tantalizing glimpses of outstretched wings. Sisky wanted to follow the lines of the tattoo, find out the colors and shapes.

"Dude, what the - " Sisky said roughly, turning his head a beat too late. He waited a second then sneaked another look, eyes drawn down the line from Butcher’s belly to his low, low jeans, the divots of his hips. Sisky bit his lip and looked up, just as the shirt cleared the top of Butcher's head, as Butcher caught him looking. Butcher grinned at him; Sisky couldn't help but smile back, even as he felt his cheeks heating up.

"It's just going to stain if I keep it on," Butcher said, "I'm gonna run it under some water, give it a soak." He dropped it in the basin in the corner of the room, the sound of the gushing water filling the silence for a moment. Butcher wrung the top out and stretched it carefully over the radiator.

"There," Butcher said, "Should dry out pretty quick. Keep me company while I wait?"

He sat down on one of the desks, feet each on a chair, and patted the space next to him. Sisky sat on the desk beside him, a little hesitant, but Butcher just slid down right next to him, his thigh against Sisky's.

"Um, so," Sisky said, his voice lifting into a squeak. He cleared his throat before saying, "Uh, what are you doing for the musical?"

“Backgrounds, staging, sets, odd jobs," Butcher said. "Whatever needs to be soldered, sawed or painted. Travie's got me filling the background with passer-bys and shit too, so it looks like we have a cast of thousands, rather than, like, the five actors we’ve got on stage. Do you know the story of Guys and Dolls?"

Sisky shook his head. "I'm not - I don't know much about musicals," he admitted.

"Me neither," Butcher said. "But Greta usually puts together little summaries of the stories and characters for people like us, I'll get her to pass you one. All I know is, it's set in this sleazy part of town, so I get to draw some real characters. Pimps and prostitutes and guys who don’t look like they’ve stopped drinking for about a week, that kind of thing. Except sorta classy in that Fifties kind of way.”

Sisky nodded like he understood any of it. “Can I – have you drawn anything onto paper? Could I see?”

“Oh yeah, totally. I was up all night last night, scribbling insane ideas.” Butcher leaned over, the expanse of his golden back right there in front of Sisky, the cords of his muscles shifting as he dug around the bag at his feet. Sisky couldn’t look away – it took all his willpower not to reach out and touch, to run his hand down the raised ridges. Then Butcher stood up, holding a sketchpad in his hand, and Sisky let out the breath he’d been holding.

“See, I was thinking this dude – and this 'lady', heh heh – and I thought this guy with the umbrella might go well at the front of the set around a lamppost, like a reference to Singing in the Rain.”

Sisky leaned over to look more closely at a tramp on one of the pages, his finger tracing the charcoal outline lightly, blurring the edges. "It looks amazing," he said. "You're - " _amazing_ , he wanted to say, but what did it matter what he thought? He was just Sisky, Jason's baby brother, who no one knew a weekend ago.

But sitting here with Butcher half-naked and pressed up against his side, murmuring explanations of each of his drawings in his ear, Sisky didn't feel so young or like nothing. He felt like he was amazing too, for a moment.

The door opened suddenly and Sisky started and slid away along the desks. Travis peered in and said, "Hey Butcher, you seen - oh Sisky, there you are, great. Wanna come backstage and help me figure out one of the sets?"

Butcher was already halfway across the room to the radiator. He held his tank top up to the light. Sisky thought he saw a pink tinge still but when Butcher pulled it on Sisky couldn't see a stain against his skin.

"Go on," Butcher said, "I've kept you too long. But I'll get you back from Travie somehow in the next few days."

"Because you were obviously working so hard in here that you needed an assistant," Travis said dryly.

"Fine, I'll go check next door and make sure no one's lopped a finger off or something," Butcher said. On his way out he brushed past Sisky, too close, too briefly. At the door, he turned around and said to Travis, "Maybe I do need an assistant, like Pete. Maybe every Butcher needs a Sisky."

He winked at Sisky, and then he was gone.

 **MICHAEL**

Halfway through the term, Michael decided that William was crazy, but he was okay.

"Ugh, that's disgusting," William said, clutching his throat. He grabbed the closest bottle of water on the table and took a large swig. "How can you even eat that, let alone enjoy it?"

"That's what you get for trying to steal my lunch," Michael said, laughing. He hadn't planned it, but it turned out Vegemite was also useful for deterring William's food thievery.

"You're _my_ adopted Australian," William said mournfully. "How could you turn on me like that? Plus, you never really delivered on the 'getting me closer to the Aussie swim team' thing."

"I told you that was an absolute impossibility from the start," Michael said. "Also, Christine is right here."

"I am right here," Christine agreed, from her place on William's lap. "And I already know all about it. I've told him she can go on his exception list, like Johnny Depp is on mine." She paused, then added, "But I think we're safe in saying that he will never ever get to meet Stephanie Rice...right, Chizzy?"

"Seriously, Australia is a really big country!"

The school was finally starting to seem much less like an alien planet. Once William had taken him under his wing, people started coming up to him in the hallways, in class, just to say hi. And by joining the musical he didn't just get an after school activity, he got an in-built group of friends.

"It's such a waste, really," Gabe said. He was sitting with his legs up at the side of the stage, one eye on the band setting up below him, one eye on Ashlee and Vicky T chatting near him.

"What's a waste?" Travis asked as he passed by, carrying a large piece of balsa wood.

"That Pete cast Ashlee as the buttoned up missionary when she has those fantastic dancer legs," Gabe said mournfully.

"Are you saying Greta can't pull off Adelaide's part?" Jon said. He'd been sitting cross-legged on the floor of the orchestra pit, tuning his bass, but now he was glaring up at Gabe.

"But Greta isn't A- " Gabe stopped short suddenly. "I mean, no way, she would totally make an awesome Adelaide - ah - I mean she is great..."

Everyone stared at the sight of a speechless Gabe. He was saved from having explain himself further, or dig himself deeper, when William rushed past like the White Rabbit, late and looking harassed.

"Make yourself useful and help me run lines," he said, grabbing Gabe by the arm and pulling him up sharply.

"I don't know what he's worried about," Travis said, as Gabe willingly let himself be dragged away by William. "I saw them do their read-through for Mr. Simpson and the Board last week. William had Sky's part down, he was barely looking at the script."

"Really?" Michael said, before he could help himself. "He was trying to memorise large chunks of dialogue before gym today, muttering under his breath the whole time about how many lines he had to learn, how many songs he had to get down, and the dancing. He sounded really stressed about it."

With rehearsals twice a week, and his friends practising their lines all over the school, some of the lines were getting stuck in his head, whether he wanted them there or not. Now that he thought about it, William hadn't sounded like he was learning Sky's lines. He opened his mouth to say so, then thought better of it.

"Maybe it's just nerves," Brendon suggested.

"Yeah," Travis said. "I wonder what Gabe meant though about - "

"Are we here to rehearse, or to gossip?" Patrick asked, coming up behind him.

"I'm guessing that's my cue to leave," Travis said. "Hi ho hi ho." He whistled as he crossed the stage, even as Pete yelled at him from across the auditorium, "Dude, that's bad luck!"

"Hey, are you coming to the bake sale tomorrow?" Brendon said, as he watched Michael tune his guitar.

"Bake sale?"

"Spencer says we can't afford half the stuff Pete wants to do, and he'd rather not give the Board any more reason to pull the plug on us. So we're gonna do some fundraising to pay for Pete's more crazy ideas," Brendon explained.

"How crazy are his ideas?" Michael said. "And how many lamingtons do we have to sell before we can afford to let him run wild?"

"Lamingtons?" Brendon asked, confused.

"Never mind," Michael said. "Yeah, I'll come, but I don't know how much help I'll be."

His aunt told him that night she wasn't going to conjure up a plate of lamingtons at such late notice, but she relented and made him a big batch of Anzac biscuits early the next morning to take to school. There was a small crowd around one of the tables outside the front of the school already by the time he arrived though.

"Hey Michael, over here," Butcher said cheerfully, waving him over. "Oh, you brought cookies as well."

"They're Anzac biscuits," Michael said.

"They don't look like biscuits," said the guy next to Butcher. "But they do look tasty." He picked one up but just before it reached his lips he stopped and said, "Um, they don't have that Vegemite stuff in them, do they?"

Michael laughed.

"No, really, William warned me about the unexpected evils of Aussie foods!"

"Well, then they're deliciously evil," Michael said. "By the way, you obviously know who I am, but I don't know who you are."

"'m Sisky," the guy said, around a mouthful of biscuit. "Oh these are _good_. Here, try some." He broke his in half and held it out for Butcher. Butcher smiled and leaned forward to eat it right out of Sisky's hand. Sisky blushed. Michael blinked, and looked away for a second. He thought he saw Mike on the far side of the lawn.

"I'll be back in a sec," he told Butcher and Sisky, weaving around people and stalls in his hurry. "Hey, Mike!"

Mike had his earphones on and was steadfastly ignoring everyone and everything as he trudged toward the entrance of the school. Michael tapped him on the shoulder to get him to stop.

"Hey," Mike said, pulling off his earphones. He looked up at Michael and smiled. "What's up?"

"I've got something for you," Michael said. He tugged on the sleeve of Mike's jersey. "C'mon, this way."

"Something for me," Mike repeated. "What, like that Band of Horses CD you were talking about yesterday?" He took a few steps, following Michael.

"Something edible," Michael told him. He waved at the banner hung up between the trees above their heads. "I brought something for this cake stall thing, you should try one."

Mike looked at the sign, at the stalls. "For the drama - right. Yeah, actually, I gotta run," Mike said, frowning. "I'll catch you later."

"No, wait," Michael said, but Mike had already turned away and was walking furiously fast across the grass, head down.

"Where'd you go?" Butcher said, when Michael came back. "We sold three of your cookies already. Okay, we sold two, and Sisky and I shared another one."

"It was nothing," Michael said. "I just thought - anyway."

There was an awkward pause, then Sisky asked, "So how do you and Butcher know each other?"

"Band," Butcher said. "Michael's pretty awesome on the geetar."

"Yeah, Butcher and Mike and I jam in class," Michael said. "We're getting pretty good, I think."

"Yeah, we should start our own band," Butcher joked. "Sisky plays bass, you'd be in our band, right, Sisky?"

But Sisky was still processing the sentence before. "Do you mean Mike as in Mike Carden?"

"Why does everyone ask me that, in that tone of voice?" Michael said. "Yeah, Mike, you know, about 5'10, brown hair to his shoulders, cool guy - "

"If by cool you mean surly, and looks mean enough to br - "

"Hey, knock it off," Butcher said sharply. "Mike's...Mike. He's a little tough to get to know, that's all."

"Sorry," Sisky said immediately, voice subdued. "It's just - yeah, I'm sure he's - um, I just remembered, I had to ask Jon something." He gave them both a tight grin, a small wave, and edged away.

Michael thought about Sisky's outburst all weekend. Everyone was weird about Mike, he realised; not just Sisky, and William, but the other people in his classes, even in the hall.

Michael had thought it was bad enough when he was the new kid, the way everyone looked through him like he wasn't there, he didn't exist.

"With the older kids out of the home, we could really hear God calling us to the mission field," his mum had explained. "And you know your gran and gramps can't take all three of you on. Ray and Louise are a godsend, and school in Chicago sounds like it will be fun." She must have seen the disbelief in his eyes because she added, gently, "Just this year, I promise, and then we'll talk about whether or not you can leave school for good. But I know you understand how important this is, Mikey, or I wouldn't ask this of you."

He did understand how important it was for his parents, so he said yes. But he wondered a lot during that first term, another day completely alone in a strange school in a new country, if there'd been any good in this plan for him at all. If he was ever going to make any friends at this school.

And then one day the guy next to him in Calc – Mike, he remembered, because it was the same as his, and because Mr. Andersen yelled it at least once a class – had looked down at the tabulature Michael had painstakingly copied onto the back of his maths book, tapped it with a finger and said, "Hey man, you're into them too?"

They'd never talked, in the three weeks they’d been sitting next to each other: Mike and Michael, ostracised by the rest of the class. Mike spent most of it looking out the window, usually.

Michael had said shyly, "Yeah, I love ‘em. My older brother, he played Loveless on his stereo every day after school, and he taught me how to play all the songs. "

"No way, that’s awesome,” Mike had said, a delighted look of surprise on his face. "I bet none of the other losers here even know who they are, let alone the songs."

“So what else d’you listen to?” Michael had asked, and from there it’d been so easy to keep talking to Mike, really easy to keep hanging out with him. They were only a few lockers apart; they had Band and Calculus together; Mike lived two streets away; and there was always another band Mike didn't know, or Michael wanted to share.

It had seemed to Michael that it was them against the world — but now Michael could see that maybe, it was really the world against Mike, and he didn’t have a clue why.

“Hey, wanna come over and study this afternoon?” Mike asked in Band on Monday, as they were packing away their guitars.

“I can’t, there's rehearsal,” Michael said absentmindedly. He looked up just in time to catch the expression on Mike’s face going from angry to blank.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Whatever."

"I'm sorry, Patrick's going nuts and he's making us rehearse three times a week," Michael said. "I could come over later?”

But Mike was already walking away, and it didn't seem like he'd heard Michael at all. He meant to find Mike at lunch, but William and Tom waylaid him after gym to head over to the cafeteria together. It wasn't until he was sitting at the lunch table with the others that it struck Michael.

"Butcher, why does Mike eat lunch on his own in the band room, or out on the bleachers? Why doesn't he eat in here?"

Butcher shrugged and said, “Well, some people, they're a bit - scared of him. You know what other people say.”

“I don’t,” Michael said honestly. People knew he was friends with Mike. They usually didn’t even mention his name within hearing.

“It’s all stupid, really. Something that happened in freshman year, a stupid prank that went wrong. People thought – anyway, he doesn’t make it easy for people to forget what he did.”

“But what did he do?” Michael asked, curious.

Butcher frowned and mumbled, “It’s dumb, I don't want to repeat shit like that - don’t worry about it.” He hunched over and bit into his sandwich. Michael got the message and changed his tack.

“Anyway, I was thinking – if I asked, d’you think he’d come and sit with us for lunch?”

Butcher snorted. “God, no. Don’t even… And don’t let William hear you say stuff like that, he’d go nuts.”

Michael rolled his eyes. So obviously something big went down between Mike and William, but no one was going to talk about it.

Butcher sighed and said, “Look, if it’s bothering you so much, we can head out tomorrow and join him. But sometimes I think he likes it better on his own.”

Michael thought about the way Mike had asked him over to study, carefully casual, like it wasn’t a big deal; except his face had told the truth, that it kinda was. And Michael thought that Butcher might’ve known Mike for longer, but maybe he didn’t know him better.

He headed over to Mike’s after dinner, after he promised Aunt Lou he'd finished his homework. He stood on the front porch, hands in his pockets, and felt foolish. But he took out his phone and called Mike anyway.

“Hey, I’m outside,” Michael said, when Mike finally answered the third time he called. “Can I come in?”

Mike opened the door a few moments later, leaning against the jamb so his body filled the doorway. “Why?” he asked bluntly.

Michael said, “I thought I’d – you were gonna lend me the Metric CD.”

“You could’ve asked me to bring it to school on Monday,” Mike said, frowning, but he moved aside to let Michael in. "Come up, it'll be in my room."

Even without being told Michael could tell which room was Mike’s. He heard Phoenix on the stereo down the corridor, and once inside the room, there was a pile of t-shirts on the floor in a corner, CDs all over his room and a guitar on the bed.

“I was restringing it,” Mike explained, as Michael looked over his Fender Strat. He kneeled on the floor and started shuffling through his piles of CDs.

Michael watched him, barefoot and comfortable, and wondered where this side of Mike went at school, why people couldn't see it. He drifted around the room, past the shelf of music magazines, a handful of well-worn books, a baseball in front of them. There was a photo, framed, standing at the end of a shelf of books. Michael leaned in to take a closer look: two boys, side by side, grinning manically at the camera. They were maybe twelve or thirteen, their arms around each other’s shoulders, one solid and broad, the other slim.

"This is you and William," Michael said out loud, surprised. He turned around. Mike stood there stiffly holding out the CD.

When Michael took the disc, Mike leant over and placed the photo frame face down. "It was a long time ago."

“You used to be friends?” Michael pressed.

Mike laughed bitterly, and said, “The best of friends, even. He wouldn’t be seen dead with me now.”

Michael sat down on the chair by the desk, and waited. He'd learnt from his sisters that sometimes the best way to get people to talk was to keep quiet. Mike hopped on his bed, cross-legged, and attacked the job of restringing his guitar, pliers tightening loops around the pegs. Michael turned the CD over in his hands and checked out the CD booklet idly.

“We’d been best friends since elementary,” Mike’s voice was quiet, his head still bent over the guitar. “During winter break freshman year, we had a week-long prank war, him, me and Tom. William and Tom were grounded after he and Tom tp'd my house. William didn’t care though ‘cos he’d worked out how to sneak out his bedroom window and stay over at Christine’s.”

He plucked the top string and it twanged, a wobbly E. Michael caught himself holding his breath at the sound and exhaled, too loud.

“Then I thought – I didn’t think, I guess – I’d get him back by cutting a notch in the branch of the tree outside his window.” Mike looked up, eyes dark. He kept his eyes on Michael as he said, “Christine climbed up to see William one night, instead of the other way around. The weight of them both on the branch – she hit the ground harder than William. Broke her collarbone and fractured her right leg.”

Mike drew a deep breath. Michael said, hesitantly, “You couldn’t have known - ”

“It was a stupid prank,” Mike said, twisting a peg savagely until the string stood taut against the fret board. “I’m sorry about what I did, and I apologized a hundred times. William still made sure everyone knew about what I’d done. Now everyone looks at me like I’ll break their legs too if they breathe wrong or something.”

Michael didn't know what to do in that moment. In the end, he reached out a hand and flicked Mike in the knee, hard. Mike flinched, and looked at Michael angrily.

"Hey, I don't see that guy," Michael said, "You don't scare me. You're just my friend, Mike Carden."

Mike stared at him for a long while, his eyes a little wild. "Thanks," he said finally, stumbling over his words, “I – that’s – yeah.”

“So show me that lick you were trying to do in class yesterday,” Michael said, changing the topic. Michael sat back and smiled easily as he watched Mike take a deep breath, the tension sliding off his shoulders as he picked up his guitar. Listening to Mike play, he realised that for the first time in months he didn’t feel like he was in a strange world, halfway across the world from home; right here, he couldn’t think of a better place to be.

**

“Jon WHAT?” Patrick said in an icy voice.

Michael raised his head from the guitar to see Spencer looking tense as he repeated, “Jon switched from drama to journalism class. And between band and the school paper he didn’t have time for the musical as well.”

Patrick swore under his breath, walking back and forth on stage. He stared blankly at one of the half-painted sets on stage, his brow wrinkled, then let out an inarticulate scream and pulled back his leg to kick the set.

“Oh no you DON’T,” Travis said, diving out from behind an adjacent set piece, the exterior of the Hot Box nightclub. “Sisky and I did not spend the whole of last week putting this together for you to knock a hole in it. Back off, and go terrorize something more solid.”

From the side of the stage, Sisky pushed an oversized wooden cube and left it nudging Patrick’s foot. Patrick kicked that instead, as he continued to rage, “We’re three weeks out from curtains up and he fucking quits, just like that?” He swiveled around sharply and stalked over to where Spencer was still standing and jabbed a finger in Spencer’s chest.

“You tell Walker that he fucking sucks for leaving me in the lurch like that just because he wants in Ross’ pants,” Patrick hissed. “It’s not even like that’s a _hard_ thing to do.”

Brendon made a noise, and darted a worried glance Spencer’s way. Spencer held his hands in fists at his side, knuckles white, and said tersely, “You’re out of line, Patrick. Jon can choose to do whatever he likes.”

“Whoever he likes,” Patrick taunted.

Spencer spluttered, and said, “That’s rich, coming from _Pete’s_ best friend.”

Michael grimaced. As Patrick turned red and spluttered with rage, Michael waved Sisky over from the side of the stage where he’d been trying to stay out of the way.

"So Butcher was saying you play bass,” he said to Sisky.

“I’m learning, really, I'm not good at all,” Sisky said quietly, darting a nervous look behind him where Patrick and Spencer were going at it furiously. “Also, I'm really sorry about the other day - "

“Don't worry about it," Michael said, "We're cool. But can you come down here for a sec, I want to show you something.”

Sisky hopped into the orchestra pit. Michael handed him the red bass, grabbed a sheaf of music from his bag, and said, “Here, try this.”

It was a simple bass line, two bars repeated for about three pages. Sisky scanned it quickly and said, “Um, like this?” He plucked out the notes, picking up the rhythm easily.

“Right, yeah, like that. Alright, gimme a moment,” Michael said, turning to Brendon on his right, who was hunched over and cross-legged on the piano stool, elbows on his knees and head propped up by his clasped hands, nervously watching Spencer and Patrick on the stage above him as they continued their shouting match on stage about Pete and Ryan’s virtues or lack thereof.

“Brendon, can you play from bar 39? With the changes we talked about yesterday,” Michael asked, pointing to the music on the stand, covered in Brendon’s loopy handwriting.

Brendon tore his eyes away from the stage and said distantly, “What? Um.” But his fingers were already poised in perfect position over the keys.

Michael picked up his guitar and counted them in quietly.

Patrick had given him the score last week. Michael had taken it to band to practise his part, and though Mike had sworn up and down that musicals were absolutely not his thing, he’d taken a shine to part of the overture.

"Man, this is in a weird key though," Mike had said, squinting at the words under the score, mouthing along. Michael smiled to see him do it, but he didn't say anything about it, didn't want Mike to stop.

"Yeah, and it's in a pretty low register," Michael said instead. "You or I could sing along easy. But Patrick was adamant about it - guess he's trying to show off Greta's great range."

So they’d spent the entire lesson tweaking with Patrick’s arrangement, just little changes here and there, but they were changes all the same — and Michael knew that Patrick would pick them out immediately.

“It’s still a dick move,” Patrick growled, then a puzzled look came over his face as he finally registered the music. “Hey, what are you guys playing? That’s not – is that - ”

Patrick stopped yelling at Spencer immediately, dropped into the pit, and hovered over the trio as they played on. He closed his eyes and tipped his head to one side. Michael nodded at Sisky and Brendon to keep going, and Brendon even threw in a few flourishes of his own.

“That sounds good,” Patrick said with some surprise when they finally stopped. “Did you write that?”

“I was just playing with it a little,” Michael said, holding his breath. He had just wanted Patrick to stop yelling, but suddenly it hit him that Patrick might be as precious about his music as he was about his musicians.

But Patrick just shrugged and said, “No, that’s fine, that’s awesome actually. It sounds good. Show me what you did there, bar 50, that sounded – and huh, you’re gonna play bass now?” Patrick asked Sisky.

Behind Patrick’s back, Michael and Brendon both mouthed _YES_ frantically at Sisky until he agreed.

Half an hour later, during a run-through of _I’ll Know_ , Travis kneeled over the edge of the stage and sighed. “Stealing one of my stagehands, now that’s a dick move.”

Patrick ignored him, but Sisky’s fingers stilled as he looked up guiltily.

“I’m just kidding,” Travis said. “We’re almost done with sets. Nate can take over for you, if I can get him out of Gabe’s clutches. Besides, I don’t want Patrick destroying any more of my hard work with his tantrums.”

Patrick flipped him the bird without turning around. Travis laughed, winked at Michael and said, “What was that quote again – blessed are the peacemakers?”

 **BUTCHER**

"This is ridiculous," Butcher said as he picked up his lunch tray and walked out of the cafeteria behind Michael. This was Michael's great idea: lunch two days a week with Mike, and three days a week with William and the gang. "I feel like we're in some kind of custody arrangement."

"Well, if mummy and daddy would just make up then we wouldn't have to," Michael said tartly. "It is ridiculous, but so's ignoring Mike everywhere except in class." He walked on ahead out the doors, heading for the shady benches out in the courtyard.

Butcher sighed, and took the pointed hint. He caught a bright flash from the corner of his eye and winced, putting a hand up to block out the sharp light. When he looked up, blinking, Sisky was there, looking a little guilty.

"Sisky Biz!" Butcher said, smile spreading across his face. "Haven't seen you in a while, man, since you defected to the orchestra." He punched Sisky lightly on the arm, so he knew it was just a joke. "How's that going?"

Sisky fell in step with him as they walked outside. "Good, good...well, Patrick's a little intense, but yeah, it's cool." He paused. "So, how you've - "

"How are - "

Their voices overlapped, asking the same question, and then they both stopped mid-sentence. Butcher chuckled. "It feels like it's been forever since we talked," he said. "I miss you, Sisky, where've you been?"

But before Sisky could answer, they rounded the corner to where Mike and Michael were already waiting. "Hey Sisky, you're joining us for lunch too? That's awesome," Michael said, breaking into a bright smile.

Sisky looked at Michael, all pleading eyes and warm smile, then at Butcher. "I am? I mean, yeah, sure," Sisky said, taking a hesitant step closer to the table.

Mike looked up at that moment from the magazine he'd been reading, and glared at Sisky. Sisky stopped suddenly, and Butcher ran into his back. Butcher gave Mike a look over Sisky's shoulder, and mouthed at him to cut out the scary act. He put his hand on Sisky's back to nudge him forward; felt Sisky tense up then relax into the touch, letting it guide him. Sisky sat down gingerly on the bench opposite the Mikes, eyes a little wild.

"Hi, I'm Sisky," he said nervously.

Butcher slid onto the bench beside him, telling himself he was moving a little closer to try and reassure Sisky.

Mike cocked his head and said, "You're Jason's brother, right? I remember from...yeah, anyway, I'm Mike."

"I know," Sisky said, then he put his hand to his mouth as if he'd said the wrong thing. "I mean, I remember too."

Mike grimaced, and said sarcastically, "Well, aren't we a cozy little group today. To what do I owe the pleasure of all this company?"

"No reason," Butcher said, trying to downplay the awkwardness, just as Michael said, "Well, we had this crazy idea..."

Butcher raised an eyebrow at Michael, then shrugged. It was Michael's idea after all, he could go and put his foot in it.

Mike said, "This crazy idea to come and have lunch with me out of pity?"

Sisky was sitting rigid beside Butcher, trying to stay as unobtrusive as possible. It was almost cute, Butcher caught himself thinking, watching Sisky bite his lips, as if worrying that any moment Mike was going pounce on him from across the table and rip him to pieces. He shook his head at the thought. Michael was right, it was a bit ridiculous how the school thought of Mike.

"No, this crazy idea that we could, maybe, start a band or something. You and me on guitar, Sisky on bass, Butcher on the drums."

"What?" Butcher said, snapping out of his reverie, turning from studying Sisky. "I thought we were - "

"Joking?" Mike finished for him. "'cos, yeah, that's what I think of that idea."

"No, really, think about it," Michael urged. "Think about how awesome it is when we jam in band, times it by a thousand and add an appreciative audience. That song you showed me last week, it was great - "

"You wrote a song?" Butcher asked, curious.

"Dude, that was private," Mike snapped, blushing. "Anyway, it was stupid, I was just mucking around. Forget about it."

"It was an awesome song, seriously," Michael said. "I'm not - you should play it for these guys."

"You really should," Butcher said. "I am all agog about this deep and creative side to you, Carden."

"Yeah, whatever, not that you guys can spare me the time of day considering the eighty gazillion rehearsals you have to go to," Mike complained, taking a swig from his soda.

"Don't wuss out of it like that. I'll come and listen to you play it right now," Butcher said. "If I'm going to join this band of yours, I want to know what I'm getting into."

"Don't call me a wuss," Mike growled. He pushed himself back from the table and got to his feet, throwing his trash into a nearby bin with a good three-pointer. "Who says I want you to be in my band anyway?" Mike continued, with a smirk. He walked over to the other side of the table and put an arm around Sisky's shoulders. "What if I take Sisky here, but not you?"

"You can't have Sisky," Butcher said, pouting, as he watched Mike grinning ferally over the top of Sisky's head. "Sisky belongs with me. Right?"

"Uh, I actually have to go meet someone," Sisky said. "If I say yes, you’lI let me go, right?"

Mike took a step back and put up his arms, as if in surrender. "Sorry, didn't mean to take you hostage," he said.

Sisky looked up, surprise on his face as he registered the genuinely apologetic tone in Mike's voice.

"I didn't - you didn't - you're not that scary," he said all in a rush. "I mean, uh, it's okay. You're okay."

There was a long pause, and then Mike threw his head back and laughed and laughed. "Glad to have the Sisky seal of approval," he said, his grin so genuine that Sisky began laughing too, mostly out of relief. "You're okay too, kid."

“Cool,” Sisky said, sounding like it was anything but. “Anyway, I really have to go.”

"What's your hurry?" Butcher said, reaching out a hand to Sisky's arm. "You've found out Mike doesn't bite, so stay."

"I can't," Sisky said, easing backwards, Butcher's hand falling away. "I promised to meet someone at one." He ducked his head and wouldn’t meet Butcher’s eyes.

Butcher watched Sisky hurry away with a frown on his face.

"How very mysterious," Mike said dryly. "Sorry I scared off your boyfriend, Butcher."

"You heard him, he said you're not scary," Butcher muttered. "And he's not my boyfriend, not yet."

"Not for a while, the way he was acting around you just then, nope," Mike said.

"Hey, don't tease him," Michael said, watching Butcher closely. "Maybe Sisky really did have something urgent to deal with." He gave Butcher a kind smile, which only made him feel worse.

"It's no big deal," Butcher said, trying to make light of it. "I'll make sure we catch up some other time. Hey, I can come and annoy you guys during rehearsal, Michael can protect me from Patrick's wrath with his sweet sweet music."

"Patrick's not that bad," Michael said then, laughing; but he'd changed his tune by the time rehearsal rolled around. "Do not even think about coming over," Michael muttered, finding an excuse to walk by Butcher. "Patrick's on the warpath today. Actually, he might even take my head off for this unauthorised pee break." He dashed back over to the orchestra area, turning around and giving Butcher a mock salute before climbing down into the pit.

Butcher tried not to let his attention linger there, resisted the temptation to watch the band practise A Bushel and a Peck for the millionth time this afternoon, nor dwell on a particular curly-haired bass player in particular. He walked up to the very back of the auditorium instead and watched as the world of the musical came into being in front of him, yelling down instructions as he supervised the sets being maneuvered into place on stage. He felt damn proud as the pieces slotted together, the mixed media worlds of all their imaginations melded into a unified whole.

"Hey, can you give me a hand here?" Vicky T asked, leaning around the door of the AV booth. "The projector's dead on at the moment, but we need to beam the video up on that surface to the right. I don't think it's ever been moved before though. If you pull while I push - "

Butcher tugged as Vicky T indicated, and together they had it shifting to the right an inch. Vicky squinted at the beam of light and said, "That should do it. Let's fire it up and see how it looks. Nice work on the painting, by the way," she said, tapping away at the computer.

Travis had left a strip of one of the set walls unpainted at a juncture. As they watched, images of a bustling city flashed by, as if a never-ending stream of flesh and blood people were really filing past and turning a corner.

"That looks fantastic," Butcher said. "Nice work there yourself."

"It is pretty damn awesome, isn't it?" Vicky T said proudly. "Two days filming just for an hour of usable footage, but I think it's worth it. But what I really can't wait to test out is the reel for Adelaide's big entrance at the Hot Box." She grinned at Butcher. "Have you seen the old movie with Sinatra and Brando?"

Butcher shook his head. He wasn't one for old movie musicals.

"Well, we had a closed set the day we filmed the sequence for the projection in that scene," she giggled, then added, "That whole scene is just a fight waiting to happen with the board."

"Oh man, more of Pete's surprises," Butcher said. "But there's no way Greta's doing a nude scene."

Vicky T just grinned. "Greta won’t,” she said, “But you'll just have to wait and see what else Pete has in store."

**

The next day, Butcher slipped into the art rooms just after the bell for first period, just one of the great things about having Mr. Way as his home room teacher. He was walking past the dark room when he heard familiar voices. Jon, most likely working on his photos for the paper, and ... Sisky? Butcher stopped, puzzled, and went into the antechamber of the dark room, plunging into complete darkness as he closed the door behind him. He pulled back the curtain and through the slimmest of gaps he watched as Jon carefully lifted a sheet of photo paper from one tray to the next.

"So the next thing is to put the print into this tray of developing solution and wait for a few minutes," Jon said. "See how it's getting darker? You have to keep an eye on that, get it just right."

Sisky, head bent slightly, watching Jon's demonstration intently, nodded.

Butcher frowned. He hadn't known Sisky was into photography. He remembered the confusion on Sisky’s face the night they had met, how upset he’d been about not understanding Jon and Tom’s discussion about cameras. Sisky could’ve come to him for a few pointers.

An icy thought struck him - ugh, what if Sisky really had been bored stiff by Butcher at the party, and couldn’t brook the idea of suffering another lecture about cameras from him? Then a worse thought crossed his mind - what if Sisky wasn't interested in photos at all, but rather the photographer? It went some way to explaining how shifty he’d been at lunch the other day. But it didn’t really make sense. All this week William had been collecting on his bet with Ashlee — by now, everyone had heard about Jon and Ryan working on more than the school paper in the journalism room last week. Sisky’s crush was futile – even as Butcher thought that, he screwed up his face and sighed. So was his, it seemed.

Butcher ducked back out of the dark room and went to get his paints instead. He painted furiously in the empty quiet, gloomy men clutching long faces as shadows turned into monsters of doubt all around them. When he next looked up from his work, it was almost third period – he’d missed English. Groaning, he gathered up his equipment hurriedly. But as he left, he couldn’t help but wander into the dark room – maybe Sisky’s prints would be hanging up and he could take a peek.

Butcher brushed aside the curtain and hesitated when he saw that Sisky was still in the dark room, on his own, hanging up one last print. Before he could walk away, Sisky turned around, as if he’d heard Butcher’s entry. He looked incredibly nervous; he opened his mouth, but said nothing; he didn’t stop Butcher from walking up to the far wall and peering at his prints clipped to the line.

Butcher took his time, searching one photo, and then the next, nine of them altogether. There was one of Bill, sunglasses on, mouth wide open in glee, piggybacking on Butcher outside school. Though Bill was in the foreground, he was fuzzy around the edges, the shot saving its focus for the sprawl of dark lines and bright color over the top and around the edges of Butcher’s worn gray tank top. Another showed Mike, Michael and Butcher outside one of their classes; Butcher was in the center of the frame, laughing at something Mike was saying. One just before Sisky joined them for lunch the other day, Butcher walking over to the table where Mike and Michael were waiting. The photos showed Butcher laughing, drinking, chatting, unawares.

The last photo, the one in Sisky’s hand, made Butcher’s breath catch in his throat. He’d been sitting out in the courtyard, the sunlight warm and delicious on his skin; he’d taken off his jacket, plugged in his iPod, and dozed off waiting for his next class, books in hand. He looked peaceful, happy, beautiful even, in this moment Sisky had stolen of him.

“These – wow – they’re really good," he said when he found his voice. "I wish you’d told me - I thought you'd been avoiding me, these last few weeks."

"I didn’t want to seem stupid or creepy,” Sisky said softly. “But after the party - after we met - I wanted to learn about photography ‘cos of you. I got Jon to lend me an old camera and he was giving me a few tutorials here and there.” Everything in the room dim was tinted a horror movie red from the only light in the room, but Butcher thought he could see Sisky blushing. "Um, but you weren't meant to see all these."

Butcher was sure he was reading the situation right, finally. He stepped closer; Sisky took a tiny step back, up against the bench, and Butcher pressed closer still. He could hear their breathing, sharp and uneven in the small, quiet space. He leaned forward, lips brushing the curve of Sisky's ear, and said softly, evenly, "I have to go to class, but meet me under the bleachers after lunch."

He pressed a light kiss to the skin just below Sisky's ear, and smiled to hear the hitch in his breathing. Sisky dropped his head until his forehead was resting lightly against Butcher's shoulder, Butcher’s hand resting gently on his hip, the spell only broken as the bell rang for third period.

Sisky was there after lunch, leaning awkwardly against one of the poles holding up the bleachers. Butcher came up behind him as quietly as he could, until he was almost breathing down Sisky’s neck.

“Boo,” he said quietly and laughed as Sisky jumped.

“Funny,” Sisky said, thin-lipped and wild-eyed, but he let Butcher grab his hand and pull him along the tunnel under the bleacher seats to the edge of the football field. There was a furrow in the ground a couple of yards behind the end zone, where the grass disappeared over a lip, hidden from all eyes except from the sky above. Butcher let go of Sisky’s hand and slid feet first along the embankment. As his feet found the base of the hill he turned around and held out his hand again. Sisky hesitated for only a moment before he reached forward and grasped it tight, letting himself be pulled headlong down the slope, right into Butcher. They landed in an ungainly heap at the bottom but Butcher only moved to right himself. He sat propped up against the dirt slope, Sisky still tilted into his side.

The bite of winter had truly passed - a blue sky, clotted with clouds, a fresh breeze; a beautiful day. Sisky squirmed and sat up a little straighter. He said nervously, "Are you sure no-one saw us come down here?"

"Chill," Butcher said, grinning. "No one's gonna catch us. I'm a master at this." He couldn’t quite suppress the impulse to soothe Sisky by running his hands through his hair, smoothing down the curly mass.

Sisky slumped back down, face half-buried in Butcher's shoulder. "Well, we can't all be cool delinquents," he muttered.

"Aww, you think I'm cool?" Butcher teased. He turned his head a little to look down at Sisky, who was now starting to flush red.

Sisky flailed and stammered, "No, I mean, yeah, maybe, kinda. Um, with being older and the art thing and the tattoos..." he trailed off, turning tomato-red.

Butcher bit his lip and bent over his sneakers. He drew out some papers and his stash to roll himself a smoke, something to busy himself with. He put the cigarette in his mouth, lit it and took a deep drag before handing it over to Sisky. The paper still slightly wet from his mouth when Sisky put it between his lips, their first kiss by proxy.

"Tell me something about you," Sisky said suddenly. "Something no-one else knows."

"I was in a boyband for about a second before I realized how lame it was,” Butcher said, laughing.

"Something real," Sisky insisted.

Butcher shoved him lightly on the shoulder and said, "C'mon, giving up my chance to be the next N'Sync? Totally keeping it real." But he went quiet, put his head on his crossed arms, and looked up at the sky.

"I didn't mean to tease before," Butcher said, "And I think you're pretty ace, actually."

Sisky looked plenty pleased at this, resting his head on Butcher's shoulder. Butcher smiled down at him, and when Sisky reached up for the cigarette, he placed it gently between Sisky's lips. Sisky inhaled, too deep; he bolted upright, coughing and spluttering.

"Hey, hey, you okay?" Butcher said, worried. He leaned down, leaned closer, and Sisky nodded, his eyes still burning.

Butcher brushed his fingers lightly over Sisky's eyes, down the side of his face. Sisky shivered under the touch and Butcher tilted Sisky's head up to kiss him. Murmuring against each other’s mouths, Butcher kissing Sisky deeper to hear him sigh. Butcher slid his hands around Sisky’s back, pressing him closer.

"The sweater has to go," Butcher said lightly.

Sisky shrugged it off easily, the spring sun warming the skin of his bare arms straight away. It seemed to seep through the thin cotton of his t-shirt too; everywhere Butcher touched Sisky he was burning hot, an irresistible heat. He traced it with his hands, fingers drawing curling patterns along the hem of Sisky's shirt, in the small of his back, as if to find the source of it all. Sisky made small moans, kissing like a surge, fast and desperate and overwhelming.

Butcher pulled them down until he was lying on the grass in the furrow, his head pillowed on the soft bundle of Sisky's sweater, grit and twigs under his back. Sisky squirmed against him, temptingly draped over most of his body. Butcher kept his hands on Sisky's hips, bracketing him, drawing him down until he could catch Sisky's lips in a slow, deep kiss - like they had all day, all Spring, all year. It wasn’t long until Sisky was rubbing up against him, small movements that drove Butcher crazy, making him almost forget they were outside and at school still. He put his hands under Sisky's shirt, running his hands over Sisky from his waist to his shoulders, and felt Sisky shudder and cant his hips sharply against Butcher. He twisted the fabric of the t-shirt around his fingers, ready to push it up, take it off, be skin to skin - and then in the distance, they heard the bell for next period, louder even than his heartbeat in his ears, Sisky's racing, beating against his chest.

Butcher felt dizzy but with his last thread of good sense he pushed Sisky away. He rolled onto his side and thought about maggots, his grandmother, everything but how good Sisky had felt against him.

"I better get back to class," Sisky said reluctantly, pulling himself up on his knees until he was kneeling over Butcher. "Gimme back my sweater?"

Butcher raised his arms and crossed them behind his head, over the sweater. He grinned and raised an eyebrow at Sisky.

"Make me," he said, and when Sisky leaned close enough Butcher whispered, "Meet me at rehearsal and you can get it back." He reached a hand around the back of Sisky's neck, and drew him down for one last kiss before letting him go.

**

The next few days were hectic. "Fucking hell!" Butcher said, after Patrick scheduled his third extra rehearsal that week, cock blocking him effectively for the fourth day in a row. He pressed Sisky against a wall backstage, face buried in Sisky's neck.

"You could come over this weekend, watch some movies," Sisky said, following it up with a kiss so intense that Butcher barely registered what he was saying.

"Movies, yeah," he said breathlessly, "That sounds great. Ohhh fuck that's - "

"When you're finished, um, moving that set piece, can we have Sisky back please? Only 'cos Patrick's about to blow his top."

"Well, I'm going to - "

Sisky put a hand over Butcher's mouth, his mouth quirking up in a smile. "I'll be there in a moment, Spence," he yelled back toward the stage. To Butcher, he said, "So, tomorrow night?" He didn't even wait for an answer before he wriggled out from under Butcher's arms, dropping a light sliding kiss along the side of Butcher's bicep.

Butcher had a brainwave that night before bed - a horror movie marathon, yeah! - tapping a reminder into his phone before falling asleep. But he didn't twig to it until seventh period Friday, during Western Civ. He was sitting behind Marcie and Patty, drifting off thinking about things that made him happy - his latest piece (a woodcut of a gnarled and twisted tree), pizza for lunch, kissing Sisky in the darkroom instead of going to fifth period - when he heard Patty giggle and say, "Yeah, he's staying the night 'cos his mom's out of town this weekend."

"Doesn't he have to look after a little brother or something?" Marcie said dismissively.

"Adam? Nah, he's old enough. Jason says he's got friends coming over, maybe some girl ‘cos he totally wanted Jason out of the house." Patty gave a dirty chuckle. "Back to the important issue - what should I wear? The red dress or the white?"

Butcher missed her fascinating reply as he realized that Sisky was inviting him over to an empty house. Huh. That was sneakier than he'd expected of Sisky...

At six on the dot the next evening, Butcher leaned on the doorbell, and grinned as he heard Sisky's rush of footsteps to the door, then the just-too-long pause before the door was thrown open.

"Hey," Sisky said, his cheeks flushed. "Six, right on time."

"Hey yourself," Butcher said cheerfully, "And yep, all the more - to watch all these DVDs." He drew the bag out from behind his back and displayed its contents with a flourish.

"Wow, seven DVDs," Sisky said faintly, letting the door fall wide open. "You're - you're well prepared. For a movie night."

"What's a movie night without movies?" Butcher continued artlessly, "Oh, and I brought popcorn too." He made sure to brush right up against Sisky as he walked into the house, so close that he heard and felt Sisky let out a small sigh.

"It's pretty quiet - no one else at home?"

Sisky, eyes wide, shook his head to say no, as if he couldn't trust his own voice to say so.

Whatever he'd told his family had worked - pizza money from his mom, and a six pack from Jason - and by halfway through Nightmare on Elm Street they were both sprawled out against the couch in the den, clutching swollen stomachs.

"Ugh, I never should've let you talk me into that last slice," Butcher groaned, rolling over until he was face-first in the couch, a throw rug scratchy yet comfortable under his cheek. He lay there for a few quiet moments, screams echoing from the screen; he felt, rather than saw, Sisky shift upward and onto the seat beside him, fingers wrapping around his wrist, the lightest touch ghosting over his skin. Butcher held his breath, making no move while he waited for Sisky's next move.

The moment hung in the air, in the silence; then Sisky ran a finger up along the edge of his arm, tracing a twisting, jagged line in a loop and back down. Butcher closed his eyes and imagined the path traced as a line of black ink, the first stroke of a new tattoo; it felt warm and perfect and right. He sighed with pleasure and turned his face to one side, shuffling forward until he lay with his head in Sisky's lap, Sisky's fingers now teasing along the back of his neck, carding through his hair.

"Come down here," Butcher said, lazy-voiced. Sisky leaned forward, about to leave his seat, and then Butcher said wickedly, "'cos the movie's just about to get really interesting and you wouldn't want to miss it, right - mmmmph."

Sisky surged forward and suddenly Butcher had a lapful of Sisky, straddled across his hips. The movie played on, unnoticed.

"It's not nice to tease," Sisky said disapprovingly. He wriggled a little, and raised an eyebrow as Butcher groaned at the friction between them. "What if I didn't follow through now, huh?"

"I'm sorry," Butcher said, as contritely as he could. He rested a hand in the small of Sisky's back, a light encouragement to get closer, and when Sisky followed obediently he dipped two fingers below the band of Sisky's jeans. Sisky flattened himself against Butcher and made a noise almost like a purr, hard against Butcher.

"I didn't really invite you over to watch movies," Sisky said, voice low, right against Butcher's ear.

Butcher grinned, his mouth crooked against Sisky's mouth, his skin. "Oh really?"

He slid his hand lower under Sisky's clothes, stroking the skin beneath, laughing as Sisky squirmed against him, seeking more skin. He dropped his head and started mouthing along the line of Butcher's jaw, dropping kisses where his pulse beat hard and strong at the jaw. Butcher tipped his head back with a satisfied moan as Sisky drew closer to his mouth, closer -

A shriek pierced the air, and both of them jumped. Behind them, Freddy Krueger claimed another victim.

Butcher burst out laughing. "Least romantic soundtrack to make out to, ever," he declared.

Sisky laid his head down on Butcher's chest and said simply, "I don't care what we make out to." He turned his head and pressed a kiss to Butcher's chest, just by his heart. It skipped a beat, then; all he could do was put his arm around Sisky and close his eyes. Even as the horrible screams of the movie floated out over their heads, Butcher felt absurdly, wonderfully content.

 **MIKE**

 _Left right left right right right left_. Mike guided the ball through the course easily, soothed by the familiar rhythm of the drill. _Right left right left left left right._ And back again, an easy sequence. Mike grinned as he reached the end, only to look up and see his team’s stony faces. He rolled his eyes and went to join the back of the line.

“Hey, Carden,” Pete Wentz called from across the field. “Come here for a second, let’s talk strategy.”

It wasn’t every day that Pete stopped talk to him, but he didn’t actively avoid Mike either, oblivious to the crowd sentiment. It made sense in a weird way; Pete had an even worse reputation than Mike but somehow he’d still managed to make it to the top of the social heap – soccer captain, drama dictator, and senior class president. Mike had no idea how he’d managed it, but he envied Pete sometimes.

“Are you making me swap positions with Evans?” he asked Pete as he approached. “’cos I think that would be a terrible idea. That kid is not an attacking midfielder, no matter what he says.”

“Nah, I wouldn’t do that to you, or the team,” Pete said easily. “I just wanted an excuse to get you over here.”

Mike eyed him warily. “Are you hitting on me?”

Pete snorted. “I just wanted to let you know there’s a ticket with your name on it for the opening night of the musical.”

“What?” Mike said. “I didn’t buy a ticket. I don’t want a ticket.”

“Let’s not be so hasty,” Pete said. “I’ve noticed that you never come to any of the drama productions, figured it wasn’t your thing. But the Aussie kid bought you a ticket.”

“What?” Mike said again, still confused. Michael did what? Why?

“You should go and support your friends, man,” Pete said, clapping him on the back, and falling in step with him as they walked back toward the rest of the team. “Take in a little culture at the same time. Mend some fences.”

“Mend what fences? I’m not fighting with Michael,” Mike said.

“What?” Pete said mockingly, then laughed. “Just come, man, all will be revealed.”

“Carden, you’re up!” Coach shouted.

Pete winked, and said, “See you tomorrow night.” And with that, he was off, running across the field whooping, with his arms outstretched.

“Are you deaf, Carden? Do you want an engraved invite? Get up here!” Coach roared, and Mike lurched forward to the start of the course.

 _Right left right left_ – His mind was a jumble. What did Pete mean by ‘mending fences’? And a musical, for fuck’s sake. What was it even about? Mike tapped the ball from one side to another. _Left left_ – he stumbled, and the ball skittered away from his feet. Coach blew his whistle, shrill and angry.

“What’s the matter, Carden? You got more important things to think about than the game this weekend?” Coach yelled.

Mike shook his head to clear it. “No, coach,” he said, frowning, as he chased down the ball, guiding it back to the start of the drill.

 _Left right left right left left right_ , and back, a perfect run.

“That’s more like it,” Coach said gruffly. “Keep your head in the game at all times, kid.”

Mike nodded. No more distractions. But when Pete jogged past again as he stood in line, Mike reached out and pulled him to a stop.

“When’s your stupid play?”

Pete grinned. “Knew you’d come around. Curtain’s at 7. We’ll make a music lover of you yet!” He jogged away backwards. “You better come…I’ve got a surprise for everyone!”

Mike scowled at Pete. “I already love music," he muttered, "and I hate surprises."

Michael was waiting for him at his locker the next morning.

“You bought me a ticket to the Spring musical,” Mike said.

“Good morning to you too,” Michael said, amused. “And yeah, I did. You can collect it at the door tonight.”

“Were you going to tell me?” Mike said, throwing his books into his locker with more force than necessary. “Or, you know, even ask me if I wanted to go?”

“Aw, I’m sorry I did it all wrong. Okay, Mike, do you want to go to the school musical with me?” Michael’s tone was serious, but his eyes were bright with barely suppressed laughter.

“No,” he answered grumpily, but he couldn’t help adding, “Anyway, it’s not even with you, you’ll be on stage.”

“Under the stage, actually,” Michael said, “Us musos aren’t pretty enough to be seen.”

Mike bit back any comment about Michael’s prettiness. He settled for asking, as casually as he could, “So what’s the point of me going then, if I won’t even be able to see you?”

“Moral support. My aunt and uncle can’t make it, but it’ll make me happy to know you’re out there, for me.”

“Fine, twist my arm, I’ll go,” Mike grumbled, even as a warm feeling washed over him at the idea of Michael needing him there. “You know I’m helpless against such a sob story.”

“You’re a real softy,” Michael agreed, smiling. “Anyway, there’s a full dress rehearsal during the afternoon, and one last music run-through right after school so I probably won’t see you before the performance. But come backstage and find me afterwards, okay? We can head over to the party together.”

“What party?” Mike said suspiciously. “I don’t party with - ”

“It’s the first night party at Ashlee's place,” Michael explained. “You have to come with me. Sounds like it’s going to get pretty wild once Pete’s big surprise is revealed. Also, I don’t really drink.”

“Oh god, Pete’s surprises,” Mike said, then he asked, amazed, “Wait, what? You don’t drink? But you’re an Australian! Don’t they, like, feed you beer from birth?”

Michael shrugged. “I’ll have a beer or two every now and then, yeah, but it's not like – most of my family don’t drink.”

“So why go to the party?” Mike asked. “Everyone’s going to be off their faces. Gabe pours alcohol down everyone’s throats like it's milk - ” He trailed off as he realized he hadn’t hung out with those guys for two years now.

Michael just said, “All the more reason for you to come and protect me from that fate.”

He leaned down and gave Mike a proper hug. Mike was so surprised that he put his arms around Michael automatically before he knew what was happening.

“If it means that much to you,” he said, embarrassed at the way his insides seemed liquid with Michael’s arm around him, warm breath gusting over his ear.

Across the hall, a freshmen stared at them, one arm still around each other Mike scowled at him and he skittered away, darting a scared look over his shoulder as he went.

“Thanks mate, you’re a real champ.” Michael said, letting him go with a clap on his back.

“Anytime,” Mike said weakly.

**

By the time the curtain fell, the auditorium was in chaos. Pockets of the crowd were clapping and cheering, but some, like the couple next to Mike, were gathering up their things and leaving without a word or single sound of applause. Some people had even left at the intermission, muttering about calling the Board, while others seemed to have sat through just so they could throng the stage, demanding answers in angry voices. Mike could just see Pete over the tops of their heads, as he sat on the edge of the stage, grinning manically. Mike watched the people streaming left and right of him, and couldn't see a way through. He didn't much feel like braving backstage and all the cast and crew, not yet. Not ever. Well, at least not on his own.

He went to his car instead. He put his key in the ignition but didn't turn it; but sat there instead as the parking lot emptied around him - the noisy chatter of irate grandparents and bemused parents and laughing children finally fading until there were only a smattering of cars left. Mike sat, and listened to the radio, and thought about leaving, but he didn't.

Finally, the passenger door opened, and Michael ducked his head in. "Can I put my stuff in your boot?" he asked nonsensically, but Mike popped the trunk out of habit for Michael's guitar and amp. Michael then threw himself into the front seat.

"Thanks for waiting," he said, all smiles. "Now where to, mate?"

As Mike pulled away from the curb, he had the sudden urge to speed off in the opposite direction. He thought about suggesting they skip the party altogether, grab a couple of cherry cokes, and head somewhere quiet, by themselves. But in the end, he sighed, hung a left, and said, "Ashlee Simpson's place, right?"

They sat in companionable silence for a while, then Mike frowned and said, "Hang on, the party's still on?"

"That's still what everyone was saying when I left," Michael said, shrugging. "Dunno how the Board will react. I guess they could cancel the play, everyone feels they might as well make the most of it and party now."

Mike snorted. "That's the drama crowd for you."

They didn't talk the rest of the way to Ashlee's house, Michael humming along to the mix in Mike's car with Mike drumming along on the steering wheel.

As they neared Ashlee's place, the sounds of the party were spilling out over the lawn through the open windows and doors.

"Gimme your jacket, I'll take it upstairs," Mike said as they walked up the path to the house. As they got closer, he felt more and more like this was a terrible idea. He didn't want to be here, in the midst of this party where no one wanted him around.

"No, wait, I'll come up with you - " Michael said, but at that moment, Brendon ran up and tapped him on the back.

"Chizzy! Come and help me with this argument with Spencer about - "

Michael looked helplessly at Mike as Brendon towed him away. Mike smiled tightly and headed up the stairs on his own. First on the left was the guest room, the bed piled high with coats and bags. Mike threw their jackets on the top and turned to leave, but then he sat down instead by the bed, leaned his head back against the bedspread, and listened to everyone else having fun downstairs.

"Hey," he heard someone say softly.

Mike looked up and saw William standing at the door, one hand in his pocket, the other rubbing the back of his neck, as if nervous. It was the first word William had said to him in almost two years.

"Hey," Mike said in guarded tones. But it must've been friendlier than William expected, for he seemed to relax before Mike's eyes and he came into the room. He laid coats down on the bed and sat on the floor beside Mike.

“You - um - you still sing well,” Mike finally said, stumbling over his words.

William blinked. "You came to the musical?" he asked. He pushed the bangs out of his eyes then said, almost shyly, “Thanks. Was it – did you enjoy it?”

"It was a lot more exciting than I expected," Mike said, trying to keep a straight face. "Does a mob with torches and pitchforks storm the stage after every performance?"

"Only if you do it like we do," William said with a grin. He looked over at Mike from under his lashes and said, almost shyly, "So, what was your favorite part?"

Mike pretended to be giving it deep serious thought. "Well, I couldn't quite choose between the moment half the audience had an apoplexy at the sight of you in sequins with a bow on your ass asking them to pet you, or when the other half keeled over at the sight of Greta and Ashlee making out on top of that bar."

William laughed, genuinely delighted.

“Mind you, I definitely saw way too much of you than I’m really comfortable with,” Mike said quickly. “You in Adelaide’s showgirl costumes, that was really something. I’d rather have Greta in a sharp suit any day.”

William punched him lightly on the arm. “Hey! I’ll have you know that I worked damn hard on my feminine wiles. I thought I made a pretty hot woman.”

“Ah, did Pete tell you that? ‘cos if you did, I have some bad news to break to you...”

William pursed his lips and frowned at him in mock outrage and anger, and Mike snickered. It was so comfortable for a moment - like they had never fought or stopped being friends - that Mike's chest hurt as he realized how much he'd missed William.

“So, you and Greta going to keep playing those parts through the whole run of the musical?” Mike asked to break the sudden silence.

“We’ll see what happens,” William said. “I mean, I did learn Sky’s part and all, and Greta does a great Adelaide, that’s how we got away with it, but, you know.” He looked down and picked at a hole at the knee of his jeans, once more the skinny teenager and not the glamorous, bold showgirl he’d been just an hour or so before. Mike marvelled at the difference an audience could make, the way William could turn it on so bright when he was on stage

Then William perked up and said, “But we’ll definitely keep doing it this way over the next couple of performances. Ashlee says her dad’s heard all about it and is absolutely frothing at the mouth, but what can he do from Jess' father-daughter college weekend?"

"Oh man, Pete knew all that and he planned it just so, didn't he?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," William said with a grin. "But it definitely seems like there's nothing he can do until school starts on Monday. Pete doesn't give a shit about what the Board’s going to do. He's got weeks until graduation, and he has early acceptance. He's all taken care of, and we have three more performances over the weekend."

Christine peered around the door. "William, have you been eaten up by the coats - oh, hey Mike."

She smiled at them both, a quiet smile. Mike met her eyes, the first time in a long while, and he realized with a wrench that there was forgiveness in her eyes. Maybe it had always been there and he just hadn’t seen; hadn’t wanted to see it.

“Anyway, I was surprised to see you there,” William said as they walked down the stairs in tandem. “I know musical theatre isn't - well, it wasn't - your thing.”

“Maybe I’m a man of greater cultural depth than you know,” Mike said, then admitted, “Actually, Michael made – uh, invited me.”

William just said cryptically, “Oh of course he did.” He paused at the base of the stairs and said, "Um, so I just wanted to say I'm sorry. For, you know. But we're - I think - you and me?"

Mike stared at him then said slowly, "We're good, yeah. And I'm sorry, too."

"So, come and hang out with us," William said, tugging on the sleeve of Mike's shirt, a familiar gesture.

Mike frowned, but William's face was open and sincere and Mike relaxed as he realized William meant well. But Mike knew that making up with William wasn’t the same as making up with the rest of his old crowd, the rest of the school. Even now, he could see Tom glaring at them from across the room, as if any moment preparing to come over and drag William away or punch Mike in the face.

Mike decided for him. He shook William off gently and said, "Maybe another day. We'll catch up. But you should go and bask in your adoring crowd now, it's your night."

He gave William a soft nudge. William gave him a crooked, shy smile in return as he loped away, covering the length of the room in long strides. As he neared them, his friends broke out in a chorus of cheers and catcalls, William bowing and curtseying in obvious delight. Mike slid away, unseen. In a dark corner of the room, they'd shoved a table out of the way and Mike hoisted himself onto it, sitting with his back up against the wall.

Michael found him not ten minutes later, two cups in hand.

"I've been looking all over for you," Michael said, handing over one of the cups. Mike took a tiny sip, then a bigger gulp. It was Coke, unadulterated. Michael grinned and said, "I poured it out of the bottle myself. But I've heard warnings about the punch bowl."

He pulled himself onto the table beside Mike. "I saw you talking to William before," Michael said quietly. He paused, then added, "I take it went well, since no one's legs were broken."

"Hah," Mike said. "That's just unkind." He smiled to show that he'd taken no real offense. "Yeah, it was alright, actually. You engineered this, didn't you? With the free ticket and everything."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Michael said, straight-faced. "But a certain skinny singer might've expressed a moment or two of regret about a friendship and wanting to make amends. I just wanted you to get a bit of culture, that's all."

"Fucker," Mike said, punching Michael lightly in the arm. He sat back and said quietly, "Thanks, though. I feel - it's all good."

"No worries," Michael said. They sat there side by side, hands barely touching on the table top, shoulders close enough to bump against each other from time to time. Around them the party went on, the party went off.

Travis, Greta and Patrick were holding court in the corner across from them, a motley assortment of cast and crew basking in their presence. Brendon was sitting cross-legged at Patrick's feet, in rapt attention, interjecting excitedly every now and then. Spencer had one arm looped loosely around his waist, holding him steady whenever Brendon threatened to physically leap into the midst of a debate, or when he looked in danger of toppling over with the force of his convictions. Both of them seemed happy with this arrangement.

Mike continued scanning the room, groaning when he caught sight of Butcher and Sisky. "Ugh, those two are so cute it's making me sick."

Michael followed his gaze and grinned when he saw them too. Sisky was sitting astride Butcher on the couch, Butcher's hands wandering lower and lower by the second as they made out.

"Cute is not the word for it," Michael said solemnly a second later.

"My eyes!" Mike said then burst out laughing when an even more scandalized-looking William dove over and yelled in Butcher's ear as the guardian of Sisky’s virtue for the night. Butcher raised both his hands high above his head, looking contrite.

But as soon as William turned away, he slid his hands under the waist of Sisky’s jeans and poked his tongue out at William’s back, until Sisky started making out with him again.

On the dance floor, Gabe and Vicky T were busy corrupting another young innocent, though Nate didn’t look for a second like he minded being sandwiched between the two.

Just to their left, Pete was haphazardly DJing, hopping between playlists on his iPod when he wasn’t too busy making his moves on Ashlee, still in her Salvation Army costume. As she talked on excitedly, Pete reached out behind him without looking and skipped to the next song. Mike rolled his eyes as the music changed from Jay-Z to Justin Bieber.

"Pete's taste is giving me whiplash," he complained. Michael just frowned. Baby was playing above them at about 150 decibels, so he resorted to shrugging and miming "What?" Mike slid closer and repeated his observation in Michael's ear.

Michael laughed. He slipped an arm around Mike's shoulders and turned his head toward Mike to answer. "Wait until he puts on his Mayer megamix," he said, making a face.

Mike grimaced as Michael nodded solemnly, then they both cracked up laughing. Just then, the sounds of Your Body is a Wonderland started playing, and they both broke up laughing again. And Mike realized that he might never truly fit in at school - but right here, right now, with Michael's arm around him, drinking and watching the crowd and making fun of the music, he couldn’t care less what else the world thought.

**

"Want to come over tomorrow afternoon?" Michael asked on the last day of school for the year, leaning against the locker door beside Mike's. "My aunt and uncle are going away for the weekend. I'll bring my guitars and the amp down to the garage, we can jam as loud as we like for as long as we want."

"Yeah, yeah, sounds good," Mike said distractedly, trying to clear out his locker. Old gym socks, now rank - in the trash. A donut in plastic wrap - Mike couldn't remember when he'd left that there, but it looked like it might still be edible. Yeah, it was probably still good. He chucked it into his backpack for later. His Calc textbook went in his bag too, though with less enthusiasm. Western Civ essay with a C in bright red at the top - trash. And so on, until the junk was all cleared away. Michael said bye to the occasional person and chatted about their plans for the summer, but stood by patiently the whole time until Mike was ready to leave.

"I'm still pretty keen on the band idea," Michael said in the car. "So yeah, tomorrow. We could work on those two songs you showed me."

Mike peered into the sunlight as he drove and hummed along with the radio under his breath.

"I mean, we've got the whole summer ahead of us, that's pretty awesome. Also, Sisky's improved heaps on the bass, and Butcher knows a guy who might let us play a set at this bar if we get good enough. What d'you think?"

"You've got it all planned already, why do you even need me to say yes?" Mike said, a little grumpily. After weeks about hearing how it could be, he was pretty much won over by Michael's enthusiasm - and okay, a little bit by his own secret dreams of being a rockstar. He just wasn't quite ready to admit it.

"Because it wouldn't work without you," Michael said earnestly. "I know you want to, we need you."

"Yeah, fine," Mike said finally, "We'll give this thing a go. Don't have anything better to do anyway." Like he could've ever said no to Michael anyway.

"Awesome. Come over at two? And I'll see if Butcher and Sisky can make it as well."

The next day, as Mike walked up Michael's driveway, he could see that Michael had, as promised, a pretty awesome set-up in his aunt and uncle's empty garage, a mess of cables and amps around his guitars and his pedal board. Michael was seated on a milk crate in the middle the room, tuning his Gretsch, lit up by a ray of sun through the murky window in the top right corner of the garage. He looked up as Mike reached the door and grinned widely.

"Like what I've done with the place?"

"It's atmospheric," Mike said drily.

"I could light a few candles for mood lighting if you want."

"Not that kind of atmosphere," Mike said hurriedly as Michael laughed.

"So the others are coming?" Mike asked, unpacking his own guitar out of its case, giving it an experimental strum. It was a bit out of tune, so he sat down cross-legged on the floor and hefted it onto his lap.

"Ah, they said they'd be by later," Michael said, head down over a tangled cable by one of the amps.

Mike shrugged and said, "Oh well, more time to muck around for us, awesome."

"Yeah, awesome," Michael echoed, pulling the crate over to sit next to Mike.

Mike picked out of the chords of the first song in his head. Michael frowned, his face clearing into a smile as he realized what it was and followed easily, joining in at the chorus, his voice husky as he sang along. They traded hooks for a while, playing their favorites, showing off for each other.

Michael was playing the beginning of Nothing Else Matters absentmindedly when he said, head down over his guitar, "So, my mum originally said I could quit school at the end of year - at the end of sophomore year. But then sent me out here and said one year more." He played a few more chords, increasingly discordant. "After that, they said I could make my own decisions - to stay or travel, do whatever I want."

Mike bit his lip, then he asked, feeling his heart sinking, "So - next stop London?"

He and Michael had talked about it so many times in class, about busking around Europe, travelling around new cities and playing music. But he'd always thought of it as just shooting the shit, dreaming big dreams that would keep him going through the boredom of school and then college. He'd banked on a few more years with Michael by his side, at least.

"I thought pretty seriously about it, yeah," Michael admitted. "One of my mates from Sydney's already over there, and I could stay with some people from my family's church."

"So it's all arranged, huh," Mike said flatly. They'd both stopped playing now, and the silence was ugly and harsh to Mike's ears. He put his guitar back on its stand and stepped up, balling his hands into fists. He kept them clenched by his side, trying to hold back the panic, rising as anger. "All these big plans for a band, all the friends you've made here - " His voice sounded so distant and thin through the blood rushing in his ears. "We've all just been a distraction, something to pass the time until you can get the hell out of here."

"Mike, I - " Michael stepped forward, reaching out a hand toward Mike's shoulder, close enough to touch.

The garage door swung upwards with a groan. Mike took a step back and squinted into the flood of light from the outside.

"What's up?" Butcher said happily as he walked in, Sisky trailing in behind. Mike noted they were holding hands. "Hey, he's here early," Butcher continued, "I thought you said three, Chizzy."

Mike raised an eyebrow. Michael had the grace to look embarrassed.

"You guys didn't start without us, right?" Sisky said. He let go of Butcher's hand reluctantly, shifting the case of his bass guitar to his right hand.

"We weren't doing anything," Mike said shortly, not meeting Michael's eyes.

"I want to hear this song of yours that Chizzy keeps raving about," Butcher said, rubbing his hands. "But first, can I set up my drums in here? Dan's gonna drive it down for me if it's okay."

"Yeah, sure. Aunt Lou and Uncle Ray won't be back until Tuesday, it's not a problem."

"Hey, why didn't you bring it down yourself?" Mike said curiously.

"Uh, we lost track of time?" Butcher said, glancing across at Sisky, whose ears were turning red.

Mike looked at Sisky more closely. His t-shirt was askew at the collar, red marks just visible. Sisky clapped a hand over the spot guiltily when he noticed Mike watching him and Michael wolf-whistled as he caught on. Sisky started to shift behind Butcher, embarrassed, as Michael said goodnaturedly, "It's nothing we haven't seen before. At Ashlee's party - "

Sisky moaned and buried his head in Butcher's shoulder.

"Don't worry babe, I enjoyed the show," Butcher said wickedly. He turned his head and dropped a kiss lightly on the top of Sisky's head.

"Ugh, young love," Mike muttered, sitting down on the crate and picking up his guitar.

"Don't be such a cynic," Michael said, in a tone so sharp that Mike looked up. He was surprised by the fierce fondness and frustration in Michael's eyes.

Outside, a horn honked. "That'd be Dan," Butcher said. "Sisky, want to come and help me bring my set in?"

Michael came and sat behind Mike, reaching around him, putting his fingers on the fret board. Mike strummed aimlessly, letting Michael set the chords.

"So, back to what I was saying before - " Michael started to say. Mike stiffened, but he couldn't escape with Michael pressed up close and playing the guitar with him, his other arm looped loosely around Mike's waist. "I thought about going away, yeah, but mostly when I first got here, when I knew nobody. But now, I think I wouldn't mind sticking it out for another year." He paused, then grinned and added, "It'll give me another year to convince you to take a gap year and come to London with me after graduation."

Mike looked at Michael, sunlight on his hair, eyes bright with his grin. He thought, _I don't know what you're talking about again, but whatever you ask, I'll always end up saying yes._

Out loud, he just said, "What about the band?"

Michael threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, so now you're worried about our band? Well, I think if we work hard enough we'll be so awesome that we'll get signed and then we'll travel the world playing music together forever. What do you think about that?"

"I think you're dreaming," Mike said. But he could almost see it in his head, carried away by Michael's enthusiasm. Big arenas, big lights, big cheers...

"One day," Michael promised solemnly, "One day we'll get there, you and me."

There was a clanging noise outside the door, cymbals against wood. "Is your manly heart-to-heart over yet? Can we come back in?" Butcher yelled through the door.

"Yeah, like you guys weren't making out by the side of the house while Dan did all the heavy lifting," Mike yelled back.

But then he went outside and helped the others bring Butcher's gear in. After they had set it all up, Michael went over the song Mike had written. Butcher listened, nodded, and started tapping out a beat on his kit. They came in one by one, building up the song, playing one part over the next until it sounded full, almost done. But it still didn't sound completely right, not quite how Mike had heard it in his head over and over when he wrote it.

"It's still missing something!" Mike said, frustrated.

There was a staccato knock on the garage door then - three taps, then one, three again. Mike started - he hadn't heard that in two years. At first, he thought he might've imagined it; listening to Michael talk about their dreams before, the sheer force of his confidence in their ability to make it - it had reminded Mike painfully of William in that moment.

But then, the garage door swung open with that awful groan again, and it was William letting himself in, just like he'd done every summer at Mike's when they were young.

There was a moment of tension, everyone holding their places, silence.

Mike moved forward. He stopped himself just in time from reaching out to touch William on the arm, as if to prove he really was there, in the flesh. He asked instead, voice a little hoarse, "What are you doing here?" _Why would you finally come back?_

William looked over Mike's shoulder for a moment, and Mike knew he was catching Michael's eye. Michael, meddling again. But Mike was glad for it, deep down. William must’ve gotten the answer he was looking for, because a slow smile worked its way across his face as he looked back at Mike, this time steadily.

"If you're gonna start a band, you're gonna need a singer, right?" And he gestured at himself, a flourish. _Here I am_ , it said.

And here they were, all the friends Mike had ever wanted - his band.

 **END**


End file.
